Seven More - a continuation of Sevenmas
by starbird1
Summary: A follow-up to Sevenmas. Sansa and Sandor remain at the castle while most of the court is on a hunting party. AU to events in AGOT.
1. Chapter 1

He was walking down the hall behind her. The soft thumping of his scabbard against his hip seemed in time with the beating of her heart. Prickles scurried down her back and she walked faster, forcing Arya and Septa Mordane to lengthen their strides as well. The three greeted others passing in the opposite direction, the swish of gowns and the patter of shoes in the stone corridor not obscuring the steady thump-thump-thump in Sansa's ears. She wished she'd not worn the bracelet he'd given her. The gentle tinkling sound would call to him, not that he couldn't see her, tall as they both were. _Don't be silly. You're not being hunted . . . _yet her body responded as though she were. Her blood practically fizzed and she leaned forward slightly, ready to run as he kept pace behind her. Sansa longed to shake off her companions and sprint to safety but decorum held a tighter grip on her than fear. She forced herself to walk more slowly and to resume proper posture.

"Are you quite alright, dear?" Septa Mordane inquired, startling Sansa out of her own thoughts.

"Pardon? Oh. Yes. Quite. Thank you."

"Your father will be back very soon. As will your betrothed." Septa Mordane smiled at her indulgently, a sparkle in her eye.

A guilty heat burned beneath Sansa's cheeks. How her septa had missed the baleful glares her betrothed had sent her way upon his departure for the hunt, she couldn't fathom. Sansa had been certain the entire court felt Joffrey's hatred for her like an intense hot wind.

Arya made a noise that sounded like_ ickkk_ and took off running, yelling, "See you at supper!" over Septa Mordane's order to return.

Sansa gasped as a hand slid under her elbow and a hard torso pressed against the back of her upper arm. She spun away from him, crashing into Septa Mordane, bringing up her arm to push him away, the traitorous bracelet jingling merrily.

His gray eyes were unreadable because Sansa was staring at his mouth, her own agape.

He'd kissed her last night. No, she'd kissed him. Or, she'd tried to. She'd tried to kiss his _cheek_. He'd turned into her and pressed his lips against hers, parting them, and she'd wilted into him like a spent flower. In an instant, his arms were around her, pulling her against the length of him as he kissed her greedily. A low groan rose in his throat as he took a step back and turned away. Sansa gasped. The current between them was a live thing. "San-" she began with half a breath. He spun, cupped the back of her head, and took possession of her mouth once more. She'd kissed him back, she remembered, feeling caught in an undertow, pulled down by instinct and overwhelmed by his hunger. His kisses grow softer and drifted across her cheek to a spot below her ear. She felt him bring a handful of her hair to his nose and breathe in its scent. Sansa was struggling to respond, too overcome to be other than swept along, and then, before she knew it, he rasped, "Little bird," and was gone.

She'd stood where he left her for a long time. If she didn't move, maybe the spell wouldn't be broken. The very late hour conspired against her, though, and, pulling the blanket off the chair she'd dozed in earlier, she made her way to bed. Tired as she was, sleep would not claim her. Instead, memories of the day's events flashed in Sansa's mind. Was it really still Sevenmas? The gift exchange seemed to belong to another time. Her fingertips found the charms at her wrist as she thought of waking to find Sandor watching over her. Her skin tingled pleasantly as she remembered his touch by the fire. Even alone in the dark, Sansa's cheeks flushed when she thought of her response to his rain-clean scent . . . and then there was the kiss they'd just shared. Sansa turned over and buried her face in her pillow. Just the memory of it shook her. Had she been forward? She'd invited Sandor to her room with the promise of a gift. Her father would be so angry if he knew. And her lady mother. Joffrey would be wroth. She was betrothed to _him_, not his sworn shield. Sansa didn't love Joffrey but that didn't make her actions right. Shame caused her stomach to swing and her breath to hitch in her chest. She had a duty, to herself, her family, and to Joffrey, to comport herself as a lady should and, tonight, she hadn't. Over and above these thoughts, though, were others. Had Sandor liked kissing her? He was a man grown and had undoubtedly kissed women before. Did he find her inadequate? Too eager, or worse, wanton? Had she done something wrong? Why had he left so suddenly? Anxiety welled up inside her. Her jaw trembled and unwanted tears slid along and over the bridge of her nose before seeping into her pillowcase. Sansa flopped over to her other side and curled into a tight ball. Though she was quite alone, she cried as quietly as she could, her shoulders shaking with nearly-silent sobs. She knew she'd been wrong, very wrong, to lead Sandor on, but she also knew, and this set her to crying in earnest, that she would kiss him again if she could.

After a time, her tears abated and she sniffed and cuffed at her wet face with the backs of her hands. _I wish my lady mother were here._ Lady Catelyn would stroke her hair and let her pour the misery out of her heart and then she would truly feel better. But her lady mother was not there. There was no one she could talk to. No, _confess _to, for an all-encompassing guilt consumed her. And now Sandor was to be hers, her sworn shield, until Joffrey returned from the hunt. Just the thought of facing Sandor made her heart crumple. She could send him word to stay away, to enjoy his time as he would, but they would both know that was cowardice after tonight. If only she knew how _he _felt! A thousand possibilities swirled through Sansa's mind. She could not be confident he'd kissed her because he liked her and not simply because she'd made herself available in the most profligate manner. Her cheeks flamed again. But _he'd_ turned to kiss _her_, and why would he do that unless he wanted to? On and on this went until near dawn when Sansa finally fell into a shallow, troubled sleep.

She'd awoken feeling drained and miserable. When Lucy, her maid, asked if she was well, she'd said she was sad to see her father and Joffrey leaving. It was a half truth. She'd hugged her father tightly before he'd mounted his horse, apologizing silently for the disappointment she knew he'd feel if he knew she'd been kissing the Hound mere hours before. King Robert was in high spirits and eager to be off, though he did take a second to give her a nod, indicating he'd told Joffrey that Sandor was being removed from his service for the duration of he hunt. Prince Joffrey had sneered at her and engaged in a brief but intense conversation with Sandor before mounting and trotting to the front of the assembly. Sansa had turned away immediately, not wishing to catch Sandor's eye. She had returned to the castle as soon as was seemly, ignoring Arya's laments to have been included in the hunt and Septa Mordane's dampening responses. A part of her had wondered if Sandor would seek her out but, now that he had, she had no more dear wish than to be alone.

"My apologies, Lady Sansa."

"There - there is no need to apologize, my lord," she replied to the floor.

Septa Mordane seemed to sense her discomfiture and said pleasantly, "Are you not joining the hunt, ser?"

Sansa cringed at the _ser _but Sandor merely answered, "No, King Robert has assigned me to be Lady Sansa's shield while Prince Joffrey is away."

Septa Mordane gasped, her disapproval plain. Embarrassed, Sansa raised her eyes, intending to speak, but she found Sandor's broad chest in her immediate view. Her hands twitched, her palms suddenly recollecting the feel of hard muscle beneath his tunic. She'd not realized until now that she'd pressed her hands against him as he kissed her. Flustered, she cast about for something to say, the pause stretching out unbearably.

"Lady Sansa?"

She looked into his face, afraid of what she might see or betray.

"I'm yours to command."


	2. Chapter 2

"I - I thank you. I'm tired and think I'll rest until the afternoon."

Sandor nodded.

There being nothing else to say, Sansa turned and resumed walking up the hall, Septa Mordane hurrying along after her, Sandor's even steps sounding after them both. Upon reaching the Tower of the Hand, Septa Mordane turned and said in a crisp voice, "Thank you for escorting Lady Sansa, ser. She can reach her room quite safely from here."

Sandor ignored the septa and addressed Sansa directly. "Should I escort your septa to her chambers or stand guard outside your door?"

Sansa could see the look of horror on Septa Mordane's face at the thought of being alone with Sandor so she said, "I believe Septa Mordane has plans to go to the market this morning. There's no need to escort her." She purposely did not ask him to stand guard, but neither did she send him away.

Septa Mordane was nodding along with her words. "Rest well, my dear. I'll meet you and Arya in the dining hall at midday. If you can get her to make herself presentable . . ."

"I'll try. Thank you, septa."

Septa Mordane cast a worried glance over her shoulder as she left her young charge in the company of the Hound. Sansa continued into the Tower but with every step, the silence weighed more heavily on her. Simple courtesy, if not their recent intimacy, demanded that she acknowledge him.

When they reached her door, Sansa stopped and turned to face Sandor. "I really did mean it when I said you were free to spend your time however you wish. You don't have to guard me."

Sandor looked at her for a beat before saying, "Is that what you want? To be left alone?"

Sansa opened and closed her mouth, unsure of what to say. Her confusion over the previous night surged forth. She thought back to the night she'd accompanied Sandor his on rounds and then, a couple days after that, when he'd told her she'd be safer in the north. He'd been a friend. Then, last night, he'd been more. Denying her attraction was pointless, but she was afraid to lose his friendship. She didn't know how to say that to him, though, and, as the silence stretched out between them, Sandor turned and walked away.

Sansa slipped inside her room and, when Lucy appeared, Sansa immediately turned her back to hide her gathering tears, declaring her intention to take a nap and asking Lucy to undo her laces. As soon as her dress was loosened, she asked Lucy to draw the drapes before she left. Once she was alone, she crawled into bed and was instantly asleep, too tired to analyze her latest misstep. Hours later, she awoke feeling more like herself. Outside of her family, Sandor was the only person in King's Landing with whom she could speak freely. He might be blunt but he was honest. Why had she ever thought he'd kiss her just because he could? She still didn't know what she would say but she needed to talk to him.

With the king and most of the principal members of court gone on the hunt, the midday meal was sure to be a subdued affair. Sansa asked Lucy to have Sandor sent for and began to get dressed, choosing a simple gown and wearing her hair loose. When she was done, Sandor had not yet arrived so she asked Lucy to help her pin her hair up. Sandor still had not arrived and Sansa was beginning to grow embarrassed by his absence.

"Lucy, I'm going to walk to the dining hall. If San-, if the Hound," she felt bad calling him that, "should arrive, please ask him to find me there."

Sansa descended the steps slowly, wondering what was taking Sandor so long. When she reached the yard, a young boy approached her. He was scarcely able to meet her gaze, though his eyes darted to her face repeatedly through the hair hanging over his forehead. "M'lady?"

Sansa stopped. She'd seen the boy before but didn't know his name. "Yes?"

"I'm Harry, the Hound's squire. Yer maid's boy came for - for the Hound but -," the boy's face grew a deep red.

"But?" Had something happened? Worry fluttered into Sansa's chest.

"I was coming to tell ya but the guards wouldn't let me in . . ."

"Please tell me now."

Another shade of crimson colored Harry's face. "He can't answer your summons, m'lady." His eyes darted to her again as he added in a whisper, "He's passed out drunk."

For an instant, Sansa felt her mask of calm detachment slip but quickly covered her disappointment. "Thank you for telling me, Harry."

"I, I wouldna said nothing, I don't want to get him in trouble, but, you being the Hand's daughter and calling for him direct, and he said if you sent word I was to find him and –"

"And you did. Please don't trouble yourself, Harry. Sandor is Prince Joffrey's sworn shield, not mine." _He has no obligation to me_, she added sadly to herself.

The boy dipped his head and hurried off. Sansa continued on her way feeling somehow rejected. She ate her food without tasting it and paid only scant attention to the conversation between Arya, Septa Mordane, and Jeyne Poole. After the meal, she walked the battlements with Jeyne and listened as her friend spoke of her every interaction with Willard, the young man-at-arms who had caught her attention. While Jeyne chattered away, Sansa kept a furtive eye out for Sandor and repeatedly chided herself for doing so. She _had_ told him he could spend his time as he pleased but she'd also grown used to having him around. He'd all but said he wanted to spend the time during the hunt with her yet, when she'd sent for him, he'd not come, preferring instead to drink himself into a stupor. Mortification rippled through her.

"Sansa?"

She looked at her friend and found her looking at her with concern.

"You don't seem yourself today." Jeyne gasped then and put a hand to her mouth. "I'm sorry! I've been talking about Willard and the prince only just left this morning. How you must miss him now that you've made up! He's so tall and handsome, and he must care for you a great deal to have left his own sworn shield to protect you, though I confess, I find the Hound very frightening."

Sansa wondered how Joffrey's punishment had turned into a virtue in a span of hours but only said, "He is not as frightening as he looks." _And Joffrey is not as angelic as _he_ looks._

Jeyne looked surprised. "No? Willard says he's savage with a sword and equally fearsome with a mace or war hammer. Sansa, you should join me to watch them train. Most of the knights are gone on the hunt, it's true, but that will give the younger men-at-arms more time in the yard and Willard says -"

Later, as Sansa climbed the stairs to her room, she wondered if Sandor would be waiting for her. When he wasn't, her disappointment was keen. After she'd undressed, she lay in bed awake wondering what, if anything, she should do. Maybe he felt just as awkward as she did though he _had_ come to her that very morning - to receive her orders, which wasn't quite the same thing as seeking her out to talk. Either way, she'd neither encouraged him to stay nor sent him away. Sansa pulled in the corner of her mouth. Why was this so _hard_? For a brief moment, she envied Jeyne. She had no wish to hurt Sandor and he surely had no wish to hurt her, yet she couldn't reconcile her feelings such that her family or Joffrey would not be hurt, either. There was no fair way to parse the pain, and pain there would be if she heeded her feelings rather than her head. She wished she could explain all of this to Sandor. Would he understand or think her a tease? A restless sadness convulsed in her chest.

The next morning dawned clear and bright. _Too clear and bright for the hour_, Sansa thought as her eyes fluttered open. With a gasp, she realized she'd be expected at the table in a matter of moments. Throwing back the covers, she flew out of bed and ran to get dressed, calling for Lucy as she did so. Septa Mordane had long impressed upon her the importance of punctuality and her heart beat madly as she silently begged Lucy to finish her hair already. That done, Sansa dashed out of the door and down the corridor toward the stairs. As she came bursting into the stairwell, her heart nearly stopped as she realized someone was there and had no doubt heard her loud and unladylike approach. It was Sandor. They were of a height, as Sandor was still a few steps down. He stood still as Sansa pressed a hand to her heart, certain it would pound through her chest.

"Good morning, my lord."

"You sent for me."

"Yesterday." Sansa immediately regretted the word, which sounded accusatory. "I'm sorry." She took a breath. "You startled me. I didn't know anyone was on the stairs."

"You didn't reach for your dagger."

Would nothing ever go right? The dagger he'd given her for Sevenmas was where he'd left it - hidden in the box on her mantel.

"You aren't carrying your dagger." There was something very final about the way he said it.

Sansa looked down. "No, not - not yet. You haven't shown me how to use it yet, my lord."

Sandor leveled a look at her but, after a pause, said, "Today, then."

Happiness rushed through Sansa despite there still being so much to say. "Thank you." She smiled. "Where will you teach me?"

Sandor thought for a moment. "My room. We'll eventually need more space but it will do for now. Do you remember where it is?"

Sansa knew exactly where it was but she could hardly admit its location was forever marked in her mind, having been there only once. "I believe I can find it again."

"Lessons won't do you any good without the dagger."

Sansa nodded and turned back to her room, all thoughts of punctuality forgotten. Sandor stood to the side of the door as she ducked inside to retrieve the blade.

As they walked back down the corridor, Sandor said in an undertone, "I'll meet you there after you eat. Make sure no one sees you in that part of the castle."

"I will," Sansa answered, taking his arm at the top of the steps. A thrum of excitement seemed to vibrate at her core.

When they exited the Tower of the Hand, Sandor kept a step behind her as they crossed the courtyard. Sansa was immediately aware of a change in the air. People scattered out of their way and seemed to pause until they passed. Sansa felt strong and powerful, backed by Sandor. _No wonder Joffrey likes to have him as his sworn shield. _Then she grimaced. She did not want to be like Joffrey. She turned and commented on the weather, drawing Sandor forward to walk beside her. The people still kept a respectful distance but she was no longer causing a stir, which suited her better.

"You're late," Arya said as soon as her sister arrived.

"I apologize. I overslept," Sansa said, seating herself as Sandor took up a place against the wall.

"How long do you have to have his ugly face hanging around?" Arya asked, shooting a glare at Sandor.

Sansa gave her sister a look. "It was very considerate of Prince Joffrey -"

Arya groaned and rolled her eyes. Septa Mordane tutted and went on at length about propriety while neither sister truly attended her. The meal lasted longer than Sansa cared for, being that Arya and Septa Mordane were both well into their eggs by the time she'd arrived. As she sipped her tea, Sansa wondered how best to avoid them for a few hours. "Arya, it's a beautiful day out. Would you like to join me in the godswood?"

Arya looked startled. "No, thank you," she glanced at the septa, "I have my first dancing lesson this morning."

Sansa hadn't known that, betting, instead, on Arya's reluctance to sit in quiet prayer, but it was just as well. Septa Mordane, of course, followed the Seven. When Sansa rose, Sandor approached. "I'm going to the godswood." Sandor pressed his lips into a flat line, though whether it was in good humor or in bad, Sansa wasn't sure. "Please-" She'd never had a servant who was expected to follow her around all day. What was the proper dismissal? "Please be prepared to escort me to the evening meal." There. That sounded ... sufficient. Sandor nodded and walked off in the direction of the kitchens.

Sansa made her way to the main entrance, stopping here and there to exchange a few words. She headed in the general direction of the godswood, surreptitiously trying to determine if anyone was paying attention to her movements. Eventually she ducked into a corridor that led her deeper into the Red Keep, her heart pounding madly the entire time. She came across some servants taking down Sevenmas decorations but turned into an intersecting hallway before they saw her. After several minutes, she was finally in the vicinity of Sandor's room. The dog who'd been laying outside of Sandor's door the night she'd walked his rounds with him was in the hallway and bounded toward her playfully. Sansa smiled and pulled out the bacon that she'd slipped into her pocket during breakfast. The dog licked her hand, gobbled down the treat, and looked at her with joyful expectation, tail wagging frantically. "That's all I've got!" she laughed. _This time_, she added to herself.

She looked at Sandor's door. Was he there already? Should she knock or would that draw attention? What if he - ? Suddenly the dog yipped and scampered down the hall, the noise that drew his notice reaching Sansa a moment later. Without another thought, she opened the door and slipped into Sandor's room.


	3. Chapter 3

** special thanks to Westeroswolf for seeing to it that Sansa fights fair. :-)

As the door shut behind her, Sansa saw a tunic drop over the last few inches of a muscular, clefted lower back that was cut off by a pair of well-fitting, low slung breeches. Sansa's breath caught in her throat as Sandor's head whipped around.

"I'm - I'm so sorry," Sansa sputtered, still seeing the flash of his bare skin in her mind. "Someone was coming."

Sandor looked like he might have a retort for that but he said nothing as he gathered his old tunic and the light armor he'd been wearing earlier and put them aside. Only then did he approach her. "Take out your dagger."

Sansa reached into her pocket but the leather sheath didn't slide easily against the fabric of her dress and the depth of her pocket made it difficult to retrieve.

"Gods, girl, you'd be half fucked before you got that knife out of your pocket."

Sansa recoiled as though she'd been slapped. "I'm sorry -"

"Not as sorry as you would be -"

"Am I to just walk around with it in my hand, then?"

"Did I say -"

"No! You haven't said anything except -"

"I said I'd show you how to use it. If you don't want to -"

"I _want _to." He'd been almost tender the night he'd kissed her and now . . . The difference in his demeanor made her feel foolish. "Why are you being so _mean_?"

"I'm not mean, it's-"

"It's the world that's mean, I know," she snapped.

"It's not the song you think it is."

"That's not the only thing that isn't what I think it is."

"What else, then, little bird? Tell me. Tell me what else disappoints you." The corner of his mouth twitched.

"I didn't say _anything_ disappointed me."

"No, you didn't, did you? You didn't say _anything_." He took a firm hold of her jaw and ran the pad of his thumb over her lower lip. "Nothing but the pretty little words your septa taught you to say."

Sansa jerked her chin out of his hand. "Better pretty words than empty promises."

"I've kept my promises to you, girl. You're here, aren't you?"

"I'm here but where were you yesterday?"

Sandor drew up to his full height and glared at her. She held his eye and waited for an answer. After a long pause he said, "You know where I was. Harry told me he talked to you."

"It wasn't Harry I wanted to talk to."

"What did you want to talk about?"

_Your kiss. You. Me. Joffrey. My father. My lady mother. My honor. My duty. Your intentions. The danger we're both in now._

"Little bird. What did you want to talk about?" He sounded resigned and, if Sansa wasn't wrong, a little sad.

"You kissed me!"

Confusion flickered across his face. He opened his mouth to speak but Sansa rushed on.

"You kissed me and I kissed you back and I'm promised to Joffrey and -"

"And you feel guilty and don't want it to happen again -"

"I -" Sansa's face absolutely burned as she searched for the strength to tell him the truth.

"Listen, girl, I shouldn't -" Sandor began to say as Sansa blurted out, "I feel guilty because I _do _want it to happen again!" Her hand flew to cover her mouth as her eyes grew wide with shock. She could not believe she'd said such a thing. Her hand began to tremble as shame flooded her. With wet eyes and a wobbling jaw, she looked at Sandor who stood frozen before her, an uncomprehending expression on his face.

An eternity might have passed before he said quietly, "Leave the dagger sheathed."

"I won't hurt you."

"Leave it sheathed so you don't hurt yourself."

Sansa straightened up and took a steadying breath.

"Let's see your stance."

Sansa was confused by his light tone but planted her feet shoulder-width apart and held the dagger blade-up as though she were carrying a torch.

It was clear from his smirk that her technique was dismal. "Maybe you should just yell for help."

Sansa's shoulders dropped and she cocked her head to the side. "If you can't -"

"I can_._"

"Show me."

Sandor walked behind her and Sansa stiffened, waiting for his hands to rest on her somewhere. Instead he kicked her left heel, sending her foot jutting forward as her arms shot out to the sides to keep herself from falling.

"You should stand with one foot in front. It'll let you attack or retreat as needed. If your feet are side-by-side, you'll stay within your attacker's range."

That made sense. Sansa nodded to show she understood.

After a pause, Sandor took the dagger from her and placed it on the table. He returned to stand behind her and she realized he'd moved closer as his breath stirred the hair on top of her head and a masculine scent filled her nose. Today he smelled of soap tinged with the lye the castle laundry used for de-lousing. Under that, though, was the scent of _him_. Sansa inhaled deeply. Crisp air? The woods? She couldn't place it. Sandor was so silent and still that Sansa turned to inquire what was next. As she did so, his arms came around her, crossing over her middle, and he took a hold of her hands. For a moment neither moved though Sansa was aware of his breathing, his chest pressing gently against her back and head.

"Am I supposed to be trying to get away?"

"Only if you want to." He uncrossed his arms, pulling her around to face him. "Or did you mean what you said?" He bent down and kissed her softly.

Whatever Sansa's concerns had been, the feel of his mouth on hers drove them away. She pulled down on his hands and stood on tip-toe to reach him better. Sandor bent down lower to wrap his arms around her, her own going around his neck, before he crushed her against him, lifting her from the floor as he stood tall again. Sansa tingled all over, nearly laughing from the shivers running over her skin and the relief that flooded her.

That was short-lived, however, as Sandor began to walk toward his bed. She broke the kiss, her breath ragged, her mind panicked. Did he think . . . ? She couldn't!

Gently, he lowered her on the bed, his knee beside her hip, his other foot on the floor, straddling her. His hands were on either side of her head as he lowered his mouth to hers again, his long black hair spilling down around her, his scent stealing over her. He sipped at her lips and she tentatively kissed him back, afraid of his expectations. She stole glances at him and he eyed her warily, as though she might suddenly evaporate. Soon, his kisses deepened and his hand moved to caress the side of her face as he sank down onto his side, his other leg still crossing Sansa's thighs.

Sansa could not relax. When his hand moved to her waist and pressed her toward him, she turned her face away. "San -"

"Just this," he said in a raspy whisper, brushing his knuckles along her jaw, bringing her lips back to his.

Sansa let out a breath and allowed herself to sink back against the pillow. Sandor adjusted himself next to her, drawing his leg past her so he was on his side while Sansa remained on her back. He brought a hand to the back of her head and she turned onto her side, resting a hand on his massive upper arm. _He looks almost drowsy_, Sansa thought to herself, wondering if she looked the same. An instant later, he was kissing her again and she felt something bump into her lower lip. By instinct she parted her lips and allowed Sandor's tongue to enter her mouth. Sansa could scarcely breathe. Currents of energy were careening through her veins so fast she was practically shaking. She could feel everything Sandor was doing and everywhere Sandor was touching her almost to the point of being overwhelmed. His tongue was circling hers, soft and rough at the same time. She parted her lips a little more and pushed forward with her own tongue, feeling his give way as she entered his mouth. His body gave something of a spasm and he pulled her against him and sucked ever so gently on her tongue, tilting his head back until their mouths parted. To Sansa's surprise, he was out of breath. He looked at her, his eyes warm with arousal, and then rolled onto his back with a sharp exhale.

Sansa wasn't sure what to do so she rolled onto her back, too, and tried to think of something to say.

"You'll be the death of me, little bird," murmured Sandor.

"Joffrey would kill us both."

"He wouldn't have to kill me once your father ran me through."

"I would ask Father not to."

Sandor chuckled but then grew serious. "They won't be on that hunt forever."

The worry that Sansa had felt before returned. "I know."

He reached between them and brought her hand to his chest where he covered it with his other hand, his fingertips playing lightly over her skin.

"Will you still show me how to use the dagger?"

"Yes."

"Here?"

Sandor paused. "Here or in your chambers. It's risky to have you come here and even the godswood isn't safe."

Sansa smiled in spite of herself. "The godswood. I've been there all this time."

Sandor laughed and squeezed her hand.

Though she didn't want to, she knew she should be seen around the castle. Sitting up, she said, "I should -"

Sandor cleared this throat. "What will you do?"

"I suppose I'll find Jeyne - you know my friend, Jeyne Poole?"

He nodded.

"I said yesterday I'd join her to watch the men-at-arms train today." She added conspiratorially, "She fancies a young man named Willard."

Sandor looked unimpressed. "Is that so?"

"Yes." It occurred to Sansa that Sandor might be acquainted with him. "Do you know him?

"He prances and preens like the rest of them -" Sansa slumped in disappointment. "- but he's not cruel."

She perked back up, relieved for her friend. "What will you do - now that you'll be rid of me for a few hours?" she asked, smiling down at him.

"I think I'll train in the yard for awhile."

Sansa grinned. "Do you normally train with the men-at-arms?"

"Only if I have to. I normally train with the knights. Jaime's not here so . . ." He shrugged.

"I'm sure you'll be wonderful."

With a roguish look he said, "Give me your favor."

Sansa's heart skipped a beat but, looking helplessly at her gown with its lack of ribbons, she frowned. "I -"

"Give it to me here," he said, hooking a finger inside the neck of his tunic and pulling it aside to expose the skin where his neck met his shoulder. He pulled her on top of him and her breath caught in a thrill of surprise. "Kiss me."

Her blood was racing again as Sansa brought her mouth to his bare skin. She kissed a line from the side of his neck down along his shoulder as she pulled his tunic aside to reach more of him. Sandor's arms were firmly around her, his big hands rubbing slowly up and down her back. "Suck on the skin, little bird."

Unsure, Sansa did as he asked. He made a satisfied noise and brought a hand up to squeeze the back of her neck. "Harder. . . . Yes, keeping doing it."

Sansa's mind skipped back to the night in her room. He'd come to her wet with rain and the fresh, clean scent of him had weakened something inside her. She'd longed to lick the water from his neck and taste the masculine smell that drew her so powerfully. Now, her face nuzzled into his strong neck, she sucked and pulled on his flesh, breathing deeply of his scent and wishing they could somehow melt together. A contented sigh escaped her and she blushed and withdrew a little. To her horror, a large burgundy bruise, wet with her saliva, shown low on Sandor's neck. She moved off of him, staring at it.

"Is there a mark?"

"Yes, I'm -"

"Good." He patted at it with his fingertips as he sat up and adjusted the neck of his tunic.

Sansa was confused at first but then she slowly realized that he'd _wanted_ her to leave a mark on him. A rush went through her.

He moved around her to get off the bed, nipping at her earlobe quickly as he did so, and crossed the room to tip a flagon into his mouth, Sansa watching hungrily as the apple of his throat moved up and down. She felt her face grow warm at the thought of sucking on it. To hide her distraction, she remained seated on the edge of his bed as he strapped on his light armor and his swordbelt. She couldn't stop looking at his neck to see if her favor was visible. It wasn't, but knowing it was there, a secret shared between them, made her feel giddy. She rose and crossed the room.

"Are you thirsty?"

She nodded and he handed her a flagon. The wine in her empty stomach made her dizzy and she giggled. Sandor glanced at her and turned away with a grin.

Once he was ready, he said, "Lady Sansa," in his Hound's voice and gestured toward the door.

Sansa laughed outright and stepped into the hall. She felt so light and happy she was sure she could fly - just like a little bird.


	4. Chapter 4

*** Author's Note: I'd like to take a moment to say thank you to everyone who has spent their time reading this so far. I didn't think Sevenmas had much of an audience so I was really (really!) surprised by the response to its sequel. If you're one of the people who has taken a moment to leave a comment, I thank you again. Your feedback is the only reward I (or any fic writer) will ever receive for our efforts and your comments are worth more to me than all the gold in Casterly Rock - _thank you! _I will continue to try to make this worthy of your time. Now, let's continue on before that hickey fades, shall we? :-) ***

Sandor conducted Sansa through the castle toward the yard and stables. The one time she'd attempted a light remark, he'd answered her curtly with a look just short of contempt. Sansa kept her tone and expression neutral after that, though her heart still leapt and twirled within her chest.

"We're stopping by the kitchens," Sandor rumbled quietly as they reached the main part of the castle. "You need something to eat."

Sansa giggled but didn't protest. This time, she went with Sandor when he entered the kitchens proper, the staff snapping to attention at their arrival. One of the maids came forward, offering Sandor a familiar smile. "Need more wine already, Hound?"

She might as well not have spoken for the heed she was paid. "Pack a meal for Lady Sansa and her friend," Sandor said to the maids in general. "And be quick about it."

"What would m'lady like?" asked a young girl. "There's some cold ham . . ."

"That would be lovely, thank you."

Within moments, a basket was filled with slices of sugar-cured ham, two peaches, a mixed bean salad, honeycakes, and a flagon of sweet red wine. "She'll have some of that bread, too," Sandor added after looking over the items in the basket.

When they were back on their way, Sandor told her, "Make sure you eat some bread before you have any more wine."

"Won't you have some?"

"No, a full belly only slows you down in a fight."

They turned a corner and saw Jeyne Poole up ahead. "Jeyne!" Sansa called.

Jeyne turned and, seeing Sansa, ran towards her friend as Sandor took a step back. "Sansa! I'm so glad you came!"

"Lady Sansa," Sandor murmured, handing her the basket before taking his leave. Sansa gave a nod of dismissal, wishing he could stay but content in the knowledge that she would see him train.

"We - I've brought us a bite to eat as we watch the training."

"Wonderful! Willard said we'd see best from over there," Jeyne answered, taking Sansa's arm and leading her to a spot where they could look down into the yard from above. A table and chairs were found for them and they giggled together as the men got organized, and Sansa felt, just for a moment, like they were back at Winterfell.

"Today's training should be really exciting, Sansa. Willard says it's to be a mounted melee!" Jeyne informed her, popping a piece of ham into her mouth.

Just then, Sandor rode into the yard on Stranger, the serrated edges of the yellow side of the saddle blanket Sansa had made him for Sevenmas flapping with Stranger's steps. A ripple went through the men-at-arms. Some were clearly displeased that the Hound would be training with them, others wanted to test themselves against him. Sansa noticed the mixed reaction and her heart ached for him. Even this lesser company did not welcome him openly.

Jeyne stiffened. "What is the Hound doing here?"

Sansa frowned. "Where else would he be?"

Jeyne didn't reply and she and Sansa stared down into the yard, each with her own apprehensions.

"That horse shouldn't be allowed in a training round," one of the men complained, waving a hand at Stranger, who took a few eager steps and snapped at his bit. "We should all be mounted the same."

"Rolf's right," someone said as a few of the men muttered their agreement.

High in his saddle, Sandor gave the man a look of disdain and spat into the dirt near his feet.

"I'm not afraid of you, Clegane."

"Just my horse?" A few men sniggered and Rolf looked around resentfully.

"He's three hands higher -"

"Do our enemies let us choose their horses? Their weapons? No? Then mount up or sit out."

There was a tense pause but the man stalked to the side and let his squire fit him with his gorget.

Sansa and Jeyne looked at each other. A more serious mood settled over the yard where, moments before, there'd been japing and laughter.

"Shall I cut us a peach?" Sansa offered.

Jeyne nodded, "Please. They look very sweet."

"Willard looks very sweet as well," Sansa answered with a smile. "Is he?"

Jeyne warmed quickly to her favorite subject and soon she and Sansa regained their spirits and turned their attention back to the yard. One of the men-at-arms was explaining how the melee would work. "- four groups of four. Stanwick, Greene, Fletcher, and myself will call disqualifications -"

Sansa slid her eyes toward Sandor. He sat his horse with a confidence and a stillness the others didn't possess. Once the recitation of the rules was complete, he said a few words to Harry and waited as the first group was called. Neither he nor Willard was called so Jeyne related to Sansa a story Willard had told her about some gold cloaks fighting the previous night. Remembering Sandor's words, Sansa chewed on the bread as she listened and watched as the first two competitors were eliminated, leaving the man Rolf and another man-at-arms to circle and swing and batter each other. With a flurry of movement, Rolf pressed his opponent back and back and the man panicked and was outed on a disqualification. Sansa looked at Sandor again and found him looking at her. As she smiled, he looked away as though he hadn't met her gaze.

Willard was in the second group and Jeyne leaned forward, gasping every time he absorbed a blow and cheering whenever he gave one. When he prevailed, Jeyne's eyes were wet and her smile was loose, her face diffused with happiness. Willard flipped up his visor and flashed a smile, sketching her half a bow from his saddle. Sansa observed her friend from the corner of her eye and felt a slight pang. She could not be seen to favor anyone besides Joffrey. A sad weight settled in her stomach. _They won't be on that hunt forever_, Sandor had said. _No, they won't be_, she thought, and resolved to try to enjoy what time she had.

Sandor was called for the third group and Sansa held her breath as he rode forward on his great black beast of a horse. To her dismay, the other three men all rounded on him rather than breaking into pairs as had happened with the previous two groups. With a clang and a clash, Sandor beat back their blows, he and Stranger weaving as one around the other men. His sword carved through the air, catching the sun and metal both, his shield absorbing hits with a dull _thump_. Growling, Sandor separated one man from the other two and with a combination of aggression and speed eliminated him from the competition. The other two men engaged again and tried to push Sandor and Stranger toward a corner of the yard. Stranger stepped to the side again and again and again, wheeling away until one man was in the corner and the other was toward the middle of the yard. Suddenly, Stranger leapt between them as Sandor delivered a savage back-hand blow to the outside man, knocking him from his saddle. The man's foot caught in his stirrup and he tried to regain his seat but was called out. The remaining man, now alone to face the Hound, seemed to shrink further into his corner. Sandor, solid and steady in the center of the yard, waited, Stranger stamping a hoof in the dry earth, sending up little clouds of dirt. The Hound leaned in his saddle as though he were about to charge and the other man shot forward, reckless and unprepared. Sandor easily made to deliver a killing blow, staying his hand to prevent contact, and the third round was over, some meager applause breaking out around the yard.

Sansa sank back into her chair as she, too, clapped. Her eyes never left Sandor as he moved toward Harry, pulling off his snarling dog's-head helm and shaking back his long, sweat-dampened hair. Harry handed him a wineskin and Sandor tipped back his head and drank it down with steady gulps.

"He still frightens me but he acquitted himself well," Jeyne noted.

"He -" Sansa longed to share her secret with her friend. Praise for Sandor, his strength, his honesty, his unexpected gentleness, the way his kisses lit a flame within her, the way his touch sent shivers down her skin, it was all on the tip of her tongue. She wanted Jeyne to know and appreciate Sandor as she did, to see him as more than his fearsome reputation. She knew she could trust Jeyne but she could not risk Sandor's safety. All it would take was one word in the wrong ear to set Ilyn Payne to sharpening his blade. Sansa closed her mouth on the opportunity to share something as simple and as important as her happiness with her closest friend.

"You are well protected," Jeyne added with a small smile.

"I am," Sansa agreed.

She and Jeyne nibbled on the honeycakes and sipped at the wine through the fourth round. The victors from the four rounds were to face each other in a fifth and final round, after a small break to let the last victor catch his breath. A light wind blew across the yard, the afternoon sunlight streaming at an angle through the castle's crenelations. Sansa began to feel lulled but straightened up in her chair when the last round began. At the call, Rolf and Willard both turned toward Sandor, the fourth man apparently not interested in engaging him. Willard pulled back when he saw Rolf make for the Hound, though, so the pairs separated, swords flashing, horses whinnying, dust drifting on the warm breeze. Rolf hacked, jabbed, and called challenges, which Sandor met with an implacable silence. Within moments, Sandor landed a hard shot to Rolf's ribs and then glanced a ringing blow off his helm on their next pass. Rolf said something Sansa couldn't hear but Sandor's sword answered with a series of slashes, whip-fast, drawing closer and closer until, with an almost lazy flick of the wrist, the tip of his sword caught the underside of the Rolf's cross-guard and sent his blade flying into the air. Even before it landed in the dirt, Sandor was heading toward where Willard and the fourth man were locked together, each trying to press the other off balance. Rolf angrily wheeled away, looking like he might attack Sandor even while unarmed, but Greene and Fletcher corralled him.

Willard and his opponent pushed off of each other, both trying to land a hit before the other could, Willard's saddle instead absorbing a blow. Their blades cut the air and then Willard deftly rested the point of his sword under the other man's chin. As Willard turned to find Sandor, a loud creak was heard by everyone in the yard. Willard's billet strap broke and his saddle started to slide. He yelled and yanked his feet from his stirrups and managed to vault off his horse. Sandor pulled up and turned Stranger aside as Willard's squire scrambled to grab the reins of his frightened horse. Jeyne stood, her mouth frozen in a rictus of fear, her knuckles white as she clutched the stone wall. "Are you hurt?" called Stanwick, coming forward.

"No, no, I'm fine," Willard said in a rushed breath as he got to his feet. "Just surprised, that's all." He glanced toward the wall where Jeyne and Sansa stood.

"Oh, thank the gods," Jeyne murmured, sagging in relief.

"Clegane, you win, by default," announced Stanwick.

"No," Willard answered. "I will challenge him on foot. If you're willing to accept, Hound."

Sandor pushed back his visor and regarded the younger man for a moment. "I accept." He dismounted and threw the reins to Harry.

Willard immediately brought his sword up but Sandor stayed him with a raised hand. "Make ready."

"I thank you," Willard said as Sandor pulled off his dog's-head helm. Willard's squire and another boy came forward to collect their helms and adjust their armor. They each drank and wiped their brows before positioning themselves in the center of the yard, a taut attention running among the onlookers. Sandor towered over the red-headed Willard, who was lean and lithe, a sharp contrast to Sandor's dark, solid bulk. Willard advanced and the duel began with a ring and a _schick _and a swipe.

Sandor's moves were tight and effective, forcing Willard to swing wide in an attempt to land a shot, at times leaving part of his arm or torso open. The duel ebbed and flowed across the yard, the clanging of their swords ringing off the stone walls of the castle. Willard was extremely quick with his blade and nimble on his feet. He danced around Sandor but the bigger man seemed to anticipate his every move. Sansa wondered why Sandor, Willard's equal in speed and his superior in size, strength, and skill, didn't simply end it. He allowed Willard to land but few shots yet he did not pummel him in return. Instead, he seemed content to let Willard exhaust himself as Sandor parried, blocked, and dodged nearly all of his strokes. After several long minutes, Willard was breathing like a blown horse.

"Yield?" Sandor offered.

"Never!"

Sansa could practically feel Sandor roll his eyes as he engaged the younger man again. He stopped withholding his force and put more of his weight and muscle into his attack, his powerful legs lunging forward and springing back, his hair drifting about his face and shoulders as though under water. Sansa was awed by the calm fluidity of his movements. Every step, every stroke was smooth and purposeful. The curve of his parry flowed easily into the line of his riposte, effortless mastery evident in every shift and turn. Sansa's mind moved under his armor and over the muscles contracting together before vigorously releasing, saw them lengthen to thrust and seize on impact. To watch him was to witness a simultaneous demonstration of strength and control. Her eyes and ears took it in but it was somewhere deeper inside her that recognition bloomed: she wanted to fit into his rhythm, to be a melody to his harmony in the beautiful song of his motion.

A crack of the swords recalled her as Sandor's blade met Willard's again and again, though Willard was no longer lifting his sword so high or moving so quickly.

"Yield."

"No," Willard huffed.

Sandor's movements became looser. Not sloppy, but broader and with less economy of motion. Willard noticed and began to take somewhat desperate stabs, only to have them parried with a flash of steel. Sandor moved closer and jabbed at Willard's sword arm, causing him to bring his shield across his body. Sandor drove his own shield into Willard's, sending him spinning, and took a quick step to the side. Willard whipped back around only to find that his own momentum would have driven him onto the point of the sword aimed at his ribs. He tried to lash out with his shield and hurl himself back in the opposite direction, his eyes widening as he saw his mistake, but it was too late and Greene called him out.

Huffing and puffing, Willard acknowledged Sandor's victory with a nod, Sandor saying something in return that did not carry to where Sansa and Jeyne were on their feet, applauding madly. Cheers and congratulations went up from the men-at-arms, mostly for Willard but some for Sandor, too. Willard, grinning broadly, twirled his sword before sheathing it with a flourish. He bowed deeply to Jeyne, who giggled and smiled at him adoringly. He'd be able to say he withstood the Hound for some time, which few men, and none outside of the Kingsguard except for Gregor Clegane, could boast.

Sandor watched all this impassively. As Harry hustled to his side, his eyes drifted up to where the two ladies had been seated. He rested his hand at the joining of his neck and shoulder, locked his eyes on Sansa, and inclined his head slightly, not breaking his gaze. Saliva flooded Sansa's mouth as she thought of the mark she'd left on his skin hours before. They'd been seen sufficiently by plenty of others. Sansa wished to be back in Sandor's room, even in his bed, _now_. A sudden hunger for his touch nearly overwhelmed her and she felt prickly from the lack of it. Too soon, he turned away and said a few words to Harry, who disappeared into the castle. Sandor gathered up Stranger's reins and walked off in the direction of the stables without looking back.

The yard began to empty and Sansa and Jeyne prepared to leave, thanking a maid who had appeared to clear the remains of their meal.

"Lady Sansa!"

She turned to find Harry hurrying toward her. She smiled at him and he flushed. "Lady Sansa, the Hound bids me tell you that he will escort you to the dining hall this evening, as you requested earlier. He begs leave to bathe and eat first."

"Gladly granted. Please offer him my congratulations on his victory, and you did very well, too."

"Thank you, m'lady." Harry smiled, ducked his head, and hurried off.

Sansa and Jeyne returned to the cool interior of the castle, Jeyne gushing over Willard's achievement, Sansa ruminating over the feel of Sandor's skin between her lips.

Back in her room, Sansa looked at herself carefully in her mirror. Her face didn't look any different but she was all too aware of an increasing turmoil behind her serene countenance. Her cheeks pinkened slightly when she thought of Sandor and how he'd carried her to his bed. She'd been afraid and nervous and stiff. He was a man, unhindered by a maiden's modesty and inexperience and free to take his pleasure where he found it. She'd told Sandor herself that she wanted to be queen, to help the smallfolk and curtail whatever cruelty Joffrey would inflict on his people. She felt guilty that, now, she craved something else, something she shouldn't want and couldn't have.

Sansa refreshed herself for dinner, taking special care with her appearance. She changed into a gown of white that highlighted her collarbones and clasped a delicate silver chain around her neck. Her hair she brushed into loose curls and, with a feeling of womanly bravado, she dabbed scent onto her wrists, behind her ears, and, quickly, between her breasts, as she'd heard some ladies did as an enticement. Lucy was still bustling around her room when Sandor knocked and announced his arrival. He was admitted and Sansa felt triumphant when the faintest trace of heat shown in his eyes.

"You were magnificent today," she effused, taking his arm to descend the stairs. "And so powerful!" she added, looking up at him shyly through her eyelashes to gauge his reaction to her bold words.

He snorted. "Gnats. All of them."

"Even Willard?"

"He has speed, I'll give him that."

"If that's all he has, why didn't you -" Sansa hesitated to insinuate he'd done something wrong. Being an authority without expertise was Joffrey's domain and she had no wish to enter into it.

"Your friend was watching," was all he said in return.

Sansa wasn't sure how to respond to that, since a part of her suspected that Sandor was proud of his ferocious reputation, so she remained quiet.

Dinner was an agony of restraint and then there was some reedy singing by a minstrel who was both oblivious to the inattention of his audience and in love with his own meager voice. At long last, it was acceptable to leave. She, Septa Mordane, Arya, and Sandor made their way back to the Tower of the Hand in silence. Septa Mordane was deposited on the lowest floor before they saw Arya to her room on the floor beneath Sansa's. She was quiet and tired and had a bruise on her wrist that made Sansa suspect her dancing lessons were not going well. Sansa and Sandor continued up the stairs, her hand resting again in the crook of his elbow but her mind whirling away. When they reached her door, he stood to the side as he always did though he rested his eyes upon her.

"Would you come in?" she said as quietly as she could.

With a look up and down the empty hall, Sandor followed her into the room, shutting the door behind him.

He was here! Nervous energy banged around inside her chest, making it harder to breathe. How to delicately tell him she liked his kisses and wanted more of them?

"Sandor?"

"Hmm?" He stepped close to her, crowding her against the wall. He bent down and kissed her soft and slow, his large hands resting lightly on her waist.

She smiled against his lips, excitement crackling within her. His woodsy scent invigorated her. "Tonight -" she began without an idea of how to frame her suggestion.

"Tonight, little bird?" He kissed along the edge of her jaw, his hair soft against her face, his breath warm on her ear. "Tonight I'm going drinking."


	5. Chapter 5

Warnings: discussion of defending oneself against an assailant

A torrent of disappointment walloped her. "Drinking?" She hated that the word even left her mouth. He was a borrowed shield and she was not a nagging fishwife. His time, outside of what she asked him to spend protecting her, was his own.

"Yes, drinking."

She pulled away from him, too humiliated to have him see the disappointment on her face.

He stood straight and looked at her, a mix of expressions crossing his face, frustration among them. When Sansa didn't respond, he went on. "It will look strange if I don't."

Sansa nodded, numb.

"Cersei will expect a report when she returns. I need something to tell her."

Sansa nodded again, wishing he'd leave, wishing she'd not made such an obvious effort on her appearance.

He chucked her under the chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. "I heard some things in the yard today . . . probably nothing, but it's worth knowing if there's trouble brewing."

"Jeyne told me that Willard said some gold cloaks were fighting the other night."

Sandor drew his eyebrows together. "What else?"

She related what details she remembered, not seeing any significance in them.

"Tomorrow I'll show you how to use the dagger."

Sansa watched his face to see if he meant he'd show her how to use the dagger or if he meant he'd kiss her and thrill her and scare her like he'd done that morning. He looked serious.

He continued, "I'll send someone to stand guard tonight. Dismiss him in the morning and then come to my room after you've broken your fast."

"I will."

"Bar the door when I leave."

"I will."

For a moment they stood looking at each other. He stepped toward her again and reached out an arm to pull her closer. She stood against him stiffly. He held her upper arms and spoke low, as though they were surrounded by others, his raspy voice just above her ear. "I'm still wearing your favor, little bird."

An unexpected blush swept over her cheeks and she relaxed a little but still felt dizzied that he was leaving her. "I'm . . . I'm glad for it," she answered honestly.

"I won't drink much tonight."

"If it please you."

He snorted. "Such a proper little lady. And sweet-smelling, too," he added, breathing in the scent of her hair.

Sansa leaned into him, lightly grasping the front of his tunic, taking pleasure in his own scent.

Sandor stepped back and bent down to kiss her, his fingertips under her chin. "Tomorrow, little bird. Remember to bring the dagger."

Sansa dined in her room the next morning and then took a circuitous route through the castle on her way to Sandor's room. Her heart was pattering along at a quicker rate than usual and her eyes darted everywhere, hoping to detect possible observers. She was walking down a hallway, sure she was emitting a pulsating light so conspicuous did she feel, when she Arya stepped into the hallway ahead of her and quickly pulled her one arm behind her back.

"Good morning," Sansa said to her sister, relieved on the one hand but more alarmed on the other.

"Good morning," Arya responded, narrowing her eyes and angling her body to keep her back toward the wall.

"Where are you going?" Sansa's ears were listening for things besides an answer. She tried to appear composed and interested.

"To my dancing lesson . . ."

"Oh. That's nice."

"Where are _you_ going?"

"Out for a walk," Sansa answered in a voice an octave higher than her normal one.

Arya made to edge by her though the hallway was wide enough for twenty. "Enjoy your walk."

"Enjoy your lesson." Sansa gave her sister a weak smile. She heard Arya take off at a run as she herself hurried down the corridor in the opposite direction, relieved to be alone once more. The dog was in the hallway again and she gave him a quick pat on the head before knocking softly on Sandor's door and entering his room.

He turned away from the portrait of the girl on his mantel when she came in. Sansa wanted to ask how his night had been but knew such a question could be construed as a recrimination so she said nothing and merely observed that he looked alert and maybe a little tightly wound. His eyes took in her heightened color and he asked, "Any trouble getting here?"

"No."

"Good." He held her eye. "Did you bring the dagger?

Sansa pulled it out of her pocket, smoothly this time, and held it out to him.

He nodded his approval. A moment later he was striding toward her, cupping her face in his hands, and covering her mouth with his, his warm tongue seeking hers out. Sansa put her hands over his, dazed. Just as she was sinking into the feel of him, he broke away and took a deep breath, lightly wiping his mouth with his fingertips. "Next time we'll meet somewhere else. It's too dangerous to keep coming here."

Sansa was too short of breath to reply.

Sandor seemed to shake off some distraction. "I said I'd show you how to use the dagger but you're not training for a melee. It's more likely you'll have to fight off a raper so we'll focus on that."

Sansa reluctantly agreed. She didn't like the idea but knew he was right.

"Sit down," he said, nodding in the direction of the table. He pushed back the few flagons and a tray of food that were on it before continuing. "First, we'll work on your grip, which can vary depending on the kind of blade you're using. What kind of blade does your dagger have?"

Sansa was caught off-guard. "I - I don't know. A sharp one, I suppose." She offered him a small smile.

He flicked a look at her from the corner of his eye in return. "That's important, now you mention it. Your weapons should always be clean, sharpened, and ready to use. Your dagger _is _sharp and, since you won't be using it, it'll stay that way. I'll show you later how to hone the edge." He reached for her hand and took the dagger from it. Leaning away, he unsheathed it and turned the dagger back and forth, showing her the blade. "Your dagger is double-edged and the blade is short. What is it made for?"

"I -"

"Think about it."

Sansa considered what he'd told her and looked at the shining steel. "Stabbing."

"Yes." He sounded pleased and Sansa beamed. "Or slashing. A double-edge lets you cut on either side," he added as he extended his arm away from her and made a slashing motion from his wrist.

Sansa nodded. "I see."

Sandor looked at her with a smile. "Here." He took her wrist in one hand and put the dagger's handle in her palm with his other. "Keep your thumb down," he said as his fingers slid over hers, squeezing them around the handle, which curved on the outsides of her pinky and forefinger and kept the knife securely in her grip. "How does it feel?"

"It feels made for me."

Sandor met her eye but only said, "Sheath it - slowly. Plenty of men slice their hands open because they're careless."

She slowly slid the blade into the leather sheath. Sandor nodded in approval. "How you're holding it now is how I want you to hold it. You'll be able to get it out of your pocket or bring it up from your side and use it without changing your grip. The more you change your grip, the more you're like to drop it or fumble it, and any delay can cost you. I'll show you something else."

He rose and crossed the room to retrieve some other knives from a chest. "See this one? The serrated blade is made for deep cutting, and it's only single-sided. This is what you use when you have time to saw into something, and you hold it like this," he said, demonstrating as he fitted his fingers against the curves of the handle and turned his wrist so it was at a slight angle. "_This_ one has a canted blade. See? All the serrations are angled in one direction. This is good for quick sawing because it rips when you pull the blade toward you but doesn't drag when you push it back." He glanced up at her, his face transformed by his interest in the subject. "The serrations are close to the handle. When a knife is made like that, you don't need the precision you would if they were near the tip." Sandor looked at her again. "It lets you use greater force and you hold it the same way as the other one." He showed her and Sansa nodded vaguely.

"Now, your dagger," he picked it up, "is good for stabbing and slashing. The way the handle's curved, it's mainly meant for a forward thrust but, if you had to, you could change your grip," he demonstrated by turning his hand so his thumb was on top, "and use it in a downward thrust. Plant it in the bastard's back, if you have to."

Sansa made a face. This was gruesome business. A bubble of unease started to form in her stomach. She didn't want to hurt anyone and she wasn't sure she'd have the stomach to even if it was warranted. Besides, the grips Sandor was showing her all looked pretty much the same.

"Sandor, I'm - I don't want to saw into someone."

"Don't think about it."

"I doubt I could think of anything else if I did."

Sandor put the dagger down. 'If someone's trying to kill you, you're not going to think, you're going to react. If you're trained well enough, you'll react in the right way. It's the ones who panic that are easy targets."

"You said I'd be more likely to be raped than attacked." She cringed away from the words.

"And would a raper want you telling the king about it?"

Sansa didn't like what that implied. "But, right now, everyone is on the hunt. Wouldn't that make it less - "

"No. Who's left, little bird? Everyone not important enough to hunt with the king. The cats are gone so the mice are out."

"You make it sound like I could be attacked at any moment."

"Remember that bloody William Dench?"

She did.

"You're going to be queen one day and you're the Hand's daughter now. That's protection and temptation both."

Sansa knew he was right but was still troubled. Sandor looked at her, narrowing his eyes in examination. "You're afraid."

"Not when you're with me." Where had _that_ come from? Joffrey had only left for the hunt two days ago and already her mouth was ungovernable. It was bad enough that she was carrying on with . . . whatever this was but such speech could cost them both. She was growing too comfortable.

Her words put a twinkle in Sandor's eye but he said, "I can't always be with you." When she didn't respond, he added, "Knowing how to defend yourself will make you less afraid. Here." With one fluid movement he was on his feet, pulling her to hers. He quickly put away his own daggers and then turned back to her.

"Remember this: your dagger isn't your best weapon - it's surprise. If some buggering fool gets it into his head to . . . you only get one chance to surprise him with your steel. Once he knows you have it, the game changes. I can show you some defensive moves but your aim should be to get away, not to engage."

"That's a relief!"

He chuckled. "Alright, little bird," he stood in front of her. "Put the dagger back in your pocket. It won't do you any good if you can't get it out quickly."

Over and over he made her practice, pulling it from her pocket, from the folds of her dress, with her left hand, while standing, while seated. He was patient and specific and, soon, Sansa no longer felt awkward. There was value in what he was teaching her and she began to appreciate the little nuances. Once she was proficient at making the dagger available, he began to show her what to do with it. He never put himself in the position of the attacker but rather demonstrated what he wanted her to do. When she did it incorrectly, he'd explain the move again and help her visualize the steps. When she did it correctly, his eyes would crinkle at the corners and he would simply say, "Yes." Sansa felt immensely pleased and, despite the unpleasant reason behind the lesson, she was enjoying herself. She felt powerful and capable. Soon she tried to add a little flourish to her moves.

"Don't get fancy. Just put the blade where it needs to go."

"I know. I just . . ."

"Like feeling powerful?"

Sansa thought about that. Courtesy had always been her armor but she had to acknowledge that carrying steel had its advantages. "I like not feeling defenseless, though I never felt unsafe until coming to King's Landing."

Sandor hmm'ed at that. After a beat he said, "A quick stab may be enough to discourage an attacker but it may also make him angry. Some men like it when a woman fights back, some don't. I told you earlier that you should try to get away. If you can't, then you should know how to incapacitate him." He watched Sansa's face, apparently looking for signs that she'd back away from this knowledge.

Sansa pressed her lips together, silently acknowledging that he should continue.

Using the outside edge of his hand, he showed her where arteries lay in the neck and, as heat bloomed under her cheeks, near the crease of his leg at his upper thigh. Sansa knew it was unseemly to stare at a man's groin but, since Sandor didn't look at all abashed, she tried to hide her embarrassment and focus on where to cut for maximum blood loss.

"Arteries are best but there's the heart," he took her hand and laid it on his chest where she could feel a steady thumping beneath the muscle, "if you can get to it. Your dagger isn't the best weapon for that but, if you have to try it, turn the blade so it's horizontal to the ground and try to slide it between the ribs."

Sansa nodded and, a moment later than she should have, removed her hand from his chest. Sandor continued but Sansa was distracted.

"If you're on the ground, you can slash open the backs of his ankles. Make sure you cut the tendon. He won't be able to walk and then you can get away. Except for when?"

Sansa was feeling a little woozy. All this talk of slashing, surely . . . She'd watched Ser Hugh of the Vale die mere feet from her, killed by Sandor's brother at the tourney in her father's honor last year, but it was different when she considered herself as the victim.

"Except for when?" Sandor prompted.

"I - I don't know."

"Except for when he's wearing boots. Your dagger is meant to go through skin, remember? Not tanned leather. Don't forget the limitations of your weapon." He was about to go on but he took a good look at her. "Let's stop for awhile."

Sansa gladly assented.

"Some food?" He gestured at the table like its presence annoyed him.

"Oh, is this for - ?" Sansa was going say "us" but felt shy. Clearly the food was for them. The tray contained bread, butter, cheese, apples, and grapes. "Yes, please. It looks good."

They sat at the table and Sandor removed a knife from his belt and cored and cut the apple, offering her chunks from the point. As he did so, she daintily spread butter on the bread and offered him pieces in turn.

"May I?" she asked, indicating one of the flagons.

He reached for a different one. "This one's for you."

Sansa took a sip, preparing for the dry, sour red wine to reach the back of her throat, but found it was a smooth white wine of good quality. He watched her swallow and seemed to enjoy the look of surprise on her face when she realized it wasn't his usual Dornish red. She smiled at him and he smiled back. They ate in a companionable silence for awhile, Sansa enjoying the simple meal and wondering that Sandor didn't cut his mouth, eating nearly every bite off of his knife's point as he did.

"Where did you learn all this?" she asked after awhile, tipping a hand toward her dagger resting on the table. Sansa knew he was a highly skilled and fearsome warrior but she'd been surprised by his depth of observation both in weaponry and human behavior.

"Everywhere."

"Everywhere?"

"I've had formal training, watched tourneys and melees, gotten into fights, seen others fight, talked to armorers . . ." He shrugged.

Sansa reached out and put her hand on his. He looked it before raising his gaze and looking at her from the corner of his eye. "Do you ever get tired of it? Of fighting all the time?"

"I don't fight all the time."

"I meant do you ever get tired of being ready to fight all the time?"

He turned his hand over, his fingers curling around hers. "Not too many men want to fight me."

"You like to train with Ser Jaime . . ."

"Yes."

Sansa, after having been in Jaime Lannister's company periodically throughout the last year, thought him as arrogant as he was handsome. She knew her father did not like him at all. He seemed like just the sort of man Sandor would despise. "Why? He's certainly very skilled but . . . you and he . . .," she faltered.

"How can I stand him?" Sandor looked amused.

"No, I meant -" That had been what Sansa meant but it was too discourteous to say. Ser Jaime had been distantly polite to her in all their encounters but there was ever a mocking glint in his eyes that made her uncomfortable. "He does not seem to care much about anything."

Sandor chuckled. "There's one thing he cares about."

Sansa did not understand.

"I like to train with him because he's as good as he thinks he is and he's nearly as good as I am."

Sansa smiled at his jape and Sandor smiled back before growing more serious. "He's not easy to beat, not like the rest of them." Sandor tilted his head back and dropped a few grapes into his mouth.

"Do you think Joffrey will become as skilled as his uncle?"

Sandor snorted and gave her a look. "Your bloody sister disarmed him. What do you think?"

Sansa sighed. Did her future husband have anything to recommend him besides his looks and his royal birth? She suddenly wondered if people asked themselves the same of her. She nibbled on a slice of bread as Sandor washed down his grapes with some wine. Her eye fell on the portrait on the mantel and she wondered again who the girl in it was. Sandor had been looking at it when Sansa had come in so, whoever she was, he'd not forgotten her.

"You've grown quiet, little bird."

Sansa instantly rejected asking Sandor if he thought she was anything but a pretty ornament and instead heard herself say, "Who is the girl in that portrait?"

A look crossed Sandor's face that suggested he regretted his words but he answered, "My sister."

Sansa was astounded. "Your sister?! I didn't know you had a sister. Is she married? Where does she live?" The idea of there being a Lady Clegane fascinated her, seeing as how Sandor and his brother, the horrid Gregor, were two of the biggest men she'd ever laid eyes on. She herself was tall but she imagined any sister of theirs must truly be striking. The face on the mantel was a simple rendering but Sansa immediately added long black hair, high cheekbones, gray eyes, and a thin mouth.

"She died." Sandor's face closed off and he reached for a drink.

Sansa felt terrible. "I'm so sorry." She wanted to hold his hand again but the nearer one was holding the flagon. She reached out and awkwardly patted his shoulder.

He set the flagon down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'll tell you about her another time. I want to show you how to defend yourself without your dagger," he said, rising.

Sansa stood as well and soon she was absorbing Sandor's instructions on how to break a nose with the heel of her hand. An hour later, mentally and physically tired from fending off imaginary foes, she leaned against the side of the window and looked down into the courtyard. She sensed Sandor was tired, too. His "make sure no one sees you there" was given without inflection.

Sansa turned away from the window and approached him. "We've been at this a long time. Let's go for a walk."

The breeze rolling in off Blackwater Bay was warm but refreshing. Sansa and Sandor strolled along the battlements, Sansa letting the sun caress her face and enjoying the feel of the gentle wind playing in her hair. She stopped and rested her forearms on the top of the wall, looking out at the ships. Sandor leaned with his hips against the wall and looked in the opposite direction toward the Keep. It was a glorious afternoon, one that made it hard to believe there was anything but beauty and goodness in the world. Clouds were piling up far off on the horizon but the air buffeting her face and slipping under her clothes felt wonderful. She looked over at Sandor, who, while never looking truly relaxed, at least seemed calm in a distracted sort of way. Sansa wished she could tip her face up to his and kiss him as the gusts blew their hair around them. It saddened and frustrated her that even walking arm-in-arm might draw attention. Openness was what she craved; to be as open as the view, as wide-ranging as the wind, free from the tight constraints of propriety and opinion. She sighed. The Sansa who'd left Winterfell a year ago would have been shocked by these ideas.

"Storm's coming, little bird."

Sansa eyed the clouds in the distance. It seemed impossible anything should mar the day but she trusted his word. "Perhaps it would be better to eat in my room then." At his vague nod, she added, "Would you join me?"

He slid his eyes to hers. With a catch in her chest, she realized he wanted to say no. He was seeking a way to politely decline. He'd kissed her upon her arrival in his room but had quickly gotten himself under control and had not touched her more than was necessary since then. Alarm started to jangle her but Sansa tried to compose herself for his refusal.

He blew out a breath and said, "Yes."


	6. Chapter 6

Special thanks to littlebirdhound for her inspired and inspiring use of trim on smallclothes. :-)

Sansa washed up as Sandor stood in the hall outside her door. The Stark retainers were making their way to the dining hall for the evening meal and she wanted them to see that Sandor was at his post. She'd asked him to wait until the shifts had changed and Lucy had brought her meal before joining her. She'd requested a large meal be delivered early, claiming her walk had piqued her appetite, and, when Sandor announced Lucy's arrival in the flattest of voices, she immediately sat at the small table in front of the unlit fireplace and exclaimed over how delicious everything smelled.

"Will that be all, my lady?"

"Yes, Lucy, thank you." She picked up her knife to butter a thick slice of bread but then set it down and added, "Lucy, there _is_ one more thing. Would you please ask Sandor Clegane to come inside before his shift ends? I'm thinking of going to the market tomorrow and will need an escort arranged."

A moment later, Sandor stepped inside the door and Lucy was thanked and dismissed for the night. Sansa smiled broadly at Sandor as she stood and gripped the back of her chair, nerves fluttering around in her stomach. As silly as it was, she felt the weight of responsibility as his hostess. "Won't you sit?"

There were only dishes and utensils for one but they made do, Sansa smiling shyly as they shared the meal, fresh air blowing in the two large doors that opened onto a deep balcony. She tried to keep the conversation going but Sandor was quiet and there were lulls. After such a pause she said, "Thank you for showing me how to use my dagger."

"You did well."

Sansa blushed. "My instructor was very good."

"You're very good and always have been, haven't you? A proper lady."

Something about his words didn't strike her as a compliment, exactly, but she couldn't see a reason why they wouldn't be.

"Shall we sit on the balcony? It's ever so nice out."

Sandor rose and followed Sansa, who carried with her a plate containing two lemon cakes and two berry tarts. The balcony overlooked the stables and the sept. It was partially overhung by the Hand's balcony on the floor above but was otherwise open to the air. A smooth stone bench of sorts ran along the length of the interior wall and little pots of brightly-colored flowers dotted the ledge. A lantern and tinder-strike sat in the corner. Sansa found it a pleasant place to sew and, when she was seated on the bench, hidden from view on all sides and only able to see very distant fields, it was like being ensconced in a private world.

Sandor settled onto the stone bench and rested a flagon of wine between his feet. Sansa put the plate next to his thigh and sat angled toward him, pleasantly surprised by the warmth the stone had absorbed that day. The last rays of afternoon sunshine were slanting through the clouds, pulling long shadows from buildings and trees. The wind was stronger now, still mild, but gusting enough to allow her hair to escape its pins. She brushed back a loose tendril and looked at Sandor's profile. His scarred side was away from her and she tried to imagine what he'd look like had he never been burned. If he was bothered by her staring, he didn't let on. He remained leaning against the wall with his head tilted up, his eyes fixed on something in the distance.

"Dessert?"

He rolled his head to the side and eyed the plate. Slowly, his gaze traveled along the bench to her lap and then up over her bodice to her face. He looked at her for a moment and then said, "It's too sweet."

Sansa was surprised but then remembered that he liked his wine on the sour side. "Try a lemon cake. It's sweet but the lemon makes it just a little tart." She picked one up and held it out to him with one hand while the other hovered beneath to catch any crumbs, despite their being outside. He took her wrist and leaned forward to bite into the cake as he held her eye. She watched him eagerly, hoping he'd like it. He leaned away, chewing and swallowing before speaking.

"They're your favorite."

"They are but I don't mind sharing. Would you like some more?"

"You should have what you want. All of it."

Sansa glanced at the plate. "There's another one and I'm sure the tarts will be delicious."

He scowled. "I want what you're offering, little bird, but you may want it back after it's gone."

Sansa was confused. "Would . . . would you like something else?"

"I never got my song."

"Oh." What was he talking about? She remembered saying she'd sing for him daily but he hadn't asked for a song. It seemed as though he wanted one now, however. "What would you like to hear?"

"You choose."

Sansa was still perplexed by his mood and songs came to her but slowly. She looked out past the balcony's edge. In the darkening distance she could see great swaths of field and darker shadows that she knew to be ponds. Taking inspiration from the view, she began to sing the first line of Six Maids in a Pool.

"Not that one," he snapped, cutting her off.

Sansa's brow furrowed. Had she done something wrong? She moved to light the lantern against the gathering gloom and, upon standing, saw the sept. When she was reseated, she began Maiden, Mother, and Crone, expecting him to interrupt again. Instead, he leaned forward and picked up the flagon, bringing it to his lips for a long, steady sip as he looked out at the sky. After the last note faded away, she remained quiet. It was as if he were alone until he requested another song some moments later. As she quietly sang the opening of Autumn of My Day, he gave a sad smirk and took another drink. When she was done, she looked at the fields again. She sensed his restlessness but, being unable to assign it a cause, she turned to pick up the other lemon cake and took a dainty bite. Moist and sweet with just a touch of tang from the lemon, she couldn't stop a small "mmm" from passing her lips, so deeply did she enjoy the flavor.

Sandor turned to look at her.

"I can sing again, if you like."

"No, little bird. You've sung all you're going to. Eat your lemon cake."

"Would you like something else?"

"Would you?"

Sansa was feeling more confused than ever. She put down the lemon cake and brushed the crumbs from her fingertips. "Have I done something -"

"No." He looked angry in the flickering light of the lantern.

"Is something wrong?"

He ground his teeth together. "A dagger isn't going to save you if Joffrey finds out."

A warm gust of wind blew over the balcony and goosebumps raised on Sansa's skin as she remembered Lady.

Sandor muttered, "I shouldn't have -"

"You shouldn't have what?" Anxiety began to whirl around inside her stomach. Surely he didn't regret the past few days . . .

"I shouldn't have taken what isn't mine."

"You haven't taken me."

He gave her a sardonic look but she was irritated that he'd made her sound like property, particularly because she'd come to feel a sense of freedom in his company.

"Have I no say in the matter? If I decide –"

"And what would you decide, girl? To be disgraced? The prince's dog isn't -"

"I think -" Sansa calmed herself and chose her words carefully. She'd come to a number of realizations since the Seven Days began. Mainly, that her recent decisions had been poor. She was satisfied that she'd secured for Sandor a short reprieve from his service to the prince but she should have allowed her father to end her betrothal to Joffrey. She still found King Robert to be intimidating and did not want her father subject to his displeasure but, truly, she should have remained silent. As Sandor had pointed out, she could still help the smallfolk even if she wasn't queen. Yes, she'd still be Joffrey's subject but distance from him held a greater appeal than ever. The thought of Joffrey returning from the hunt in a foul mood both worried and exhausted her. She couldn't say Sandor was always easy company but she didn't fear him and, of late, she'd very much been enjoying their time together, even when he wasn't kissing her. Sansa was also aware of a shift within herself. She still wanted to fulfill her responsibilities to her family, to the king, and to the smallfolk, and she often did her duty gladly, but she'd spent all of her seventeen years meeting the expectations of everyone around her. In Sandor's company, she'd stepped outside of herself and seen just how wide the world truly was. A part of her wanted to shed her obligations . . . if only until the hunt ended. A few days of freedom, even if stolen in the shadow of Joffrey's wrath, were too appealing to refuse. She looked at Sandor and continued. "I think it will be hard when the hunt ends to conceal that I know you as well as I do. But I would know you better just the same."

He considered that for a moment. "This is what you choose?"

"Yes." The finality of it nearly took her breath away.

"You're certain?" He was staring at her intently, watching for any sign of a lie.

"Yes."

His posture relaxed just a little but he didn't respond.

"What do you choose?"

The corners of his mouth twitched up. "Dessert."

Sansa smiled and reached for the lemon cake he'd bitten into earlier.

"That's not what I want." He pinched off a corner of one of the tarts, breaking the crust, the bright red juice of the berries bleeding out onto the plate. He popped the bit of pastry into his mouth and ate it while looking at Sansa, his eyes crinkled in the corners. "Don't be shy, girl. Feed it to me like you did the lemon cake."

Sansa reached for a fork.

"Not that way."

The tart looked awfully messy but she nudged a cherry out of the crust and balanced it on her fingertip. Sandor leaned forward to take the length of her finger into his mouth, the tip of his tongue tickling the skin between her index and middle fingers before he sucked off the cherry and its juice. The sensation of it surprised her. She dipped into the tart again and pulled out a strawberry. His lips around the tips of her index finger and thumb felt so strange, so soft and warm and moist, so unusual and so different from the way he usually touched her. Until recently, he'd only ever touched her with his hands, and for every gentle touch, there seemed to be a firmer grab or pinch to go with it. She knew he could be gentle but this was something else entirely.

"Is it good?"

"Too early to tell."

Sansa laughed softly. She broke off a piece of the crust and dabbed it into the pool of syrupy juice before feeding it to him. She dragged the pad of her thumb over his lower lip to wipe away the red stain.

Sandor dipped his finger into the red puddle and raised it to her mouth, which she opened, but instead of feeding it to her, he smeared it on her lip. She ran the tip of her tongue over it, the sweetness of the juice making her say, "Mmm," again.

Sandor leaned forward and covered her mouth with his, his tongue sliding over her lower lip as he gently sucked on it. She raised her hand to cup his cheek, the hard ridges of his scars a contrast to his soft mouth. He leaned away and hastily moved the plate to the ground before pulling her closer. Sansa barely had time to take a breath before he tugged her against his chest and lay back on the bench. He pulled her up again and resumed kissing her.

The feel of his body beneath her was nearly overwhelming. Her breasts were pressed against his hard chest, only the fabric of her gown and his tunic separating them. The heat of the stone bench warmed her palms as she tried not to crush him despite the weight of his strong arms bearing down on her. Most of all, she was aware of her legs, which she kept squeezed together, resting between his. Every point of contact tingled so that she was fairly trembling.

Sandor kissed her fervently, one arm wrapped around her waist, his other hand pressing against her upper back. The wind blew, causing her skirts to flap and expose her lower legs. The balmy air on her skin, on her legs, arms, chest, and face, had the feel of silk, of lapping water. Her hair was tossed about and she shook it back.

"Unpin your hair." His raspy voice was nearly lost in the wind.

Sansa rolled onto her side a bit and expertly removed the pins, placing them on the bench as her hair cascaded down over her shoulder. She lay against Sandor again as the wind whipped through her hair, blowing it about wildly. Sansa knew she must look a terrible mess but Sandor was looking up at her with stark desire in his eyes. It sent a thrill through her and scared her all at once. She couldn't hope to satisfy him, even if she knew how to begin. What she did know was that she wanted him to continue touching her and kissing her as the breeze caressed her bare flesh.

Before long, his hands were in her hair, clutching it, combing through it, lifting it for the wind to catch. He took a handful of it and gently tugged her head back, exposing her throat to his waiting mouth. Sandor kissed just beneath her chin and, arching against her, trailed kisses along the length of her throat before gently biting the side of her neck and releasing her hair.

Sansa's heart was pounding. His teeth on her neck, dangerous and primal, sent shivers through her. She was being carried along in a current, unable and unwilling to pull herself out of it. She lay against him again but froze momentarily when she felt something in between them. More dangerous than his teeth was his arousal. She could neither acknowledge nor ignore it. The panic she'd felt when he'd carried her to his bed began to well up inside her again. She tried to push it down. _He must know . . . _

Her mind raced on anyway.

What if he tried . . . ?

What if he wanted to . . . ?

What if _she_ wanted to . . . ?

At what point should she stop him?

What if she didn't . . . ?

She'd been still too long. To cover her confusion, Sansa lowered her mouth to the side of Sandor's face and gently sucked on his earlobe. He grunted softly as his hands played over her back. She drew the tip of her tongue up along the edge of his ear and then reversed its path, circling just inside his inner ear. Sandor chuckled low and shifted beneath her, his manhood grazing her leg and sending shivers through her.

A rumble of thunder sounded and a strong, hot wind buffeted the balcony, extinguishing the lantern and plunging them into darkness. Sansa stiffened for a moment and Sandor's arms locked around her. He chuckled again and rubbed her back, "It's alright, little bird."

She snuggled against him. His fingers on her back were making her drowsy until understanding jolted her. He was undoing her laces.

"Sandor?" she whispered, her voice almost a squeak.

"Mmm?"

She wanted to ask him what he was doing but she knew what he was doing. Demanding that he stop seemed childish but things were moving so fast and she was rapidly losing control, scrabbling to find purchase. Anxiety closed her throat.

"Sit up."

Sansa could feel herself blushing as she pressed one hand to the front of her gown and placed the other on the stone to keep her balance. She moved back on to her knees, sitting on her ankles, and waited.

"Damn wind," he muttered as he sat up and moved his leg around her. He found her waist with his hands.

Sansa looked out into the night. The blackness was absolute. A fire had not been lit in her room so there was no light coming from within. She could not see Sandor but she could feel _everything_: the weight of his hands on her sides, the heaviness of her breasts, his knee against hers, a throb within her . . . but most of all she could feel the wind. The breeze undulated against her skin with a sensuality that made her want to moan with pleasure. She'd never felt a wind this warm yet this strong. Every nerve in her body seemed to respond to it, to crave its touch and be nourished by it. Her skin ached for exposure. It was as though _life_ was coursing through her and over her with every gust.

Just then lightning flashed and she saw Sandor raise his face to hers. She released the hand pressing her bodice and it fell slightly forward, letting the storm's air circulate around her breasts. Her nipples peaked at its touch. She shrugged a shoulder out of her gown and felt the wind draw her hair over it. Sandor's large hand bumped against her arm before reaching her shoulder and, finding it bare, he paused.

She barely heard him say, "Little bird." His fingers traced along her shoulder to her collarbone and moved down just slightly before leaving her skin. She pushed her gown off her other shoulder and it fell until only the tips of her breasts were covered. Her back was open to the air and it felt wonderful, like silken feathers or a shower of petals or the fluttering of butterfly wings.

Sansa laughed. "The wind - it feels so good!"

"Fuck the wind," Sandor growled. He stood and yanked Sansa to her feet. His hands moved under her arms before plunging into her gown, shoving the fabric down and exposing her nearly to the waist.

A violent crack of thunder made them both jump and then rain hammered down. The wind, cool now, billowed over the balcony in waves, bringing with it the finest mist of water. Another flash of lightning showed Sandor looking down at her. He crushed her against him and then slid his hands down the length of her back, his fingertips pressing grooves into her skin. He clutched her waist just above her hips, kneading the flesh with his strong fingers. It almost hurt. His manhood was firm against her stomach but this time it didn't scare her. So much of him was hard that it seemed natural for his muscular length to be firm as well. Sansa placed her hands against his abdomen and felt the contoured muscle beneath. It wasn't enough. She slid her hands under his tunic and let her fingers explore the valleys between his muscles. Her thumbs detected indentations over the front of his hips that moved down toward . . . His manhood twitched against her stomach and Sandor curled over her, making a noise between a grunt and a cry. His hands moved up and down her back frantically. He was panting and Sansa's eyes widened in surprise. She was stunned to realize that this man, muscled like a bull as he was, was weak before her. The power her dagger bestowed was nothing by comparison. His hands pressed her closer and then dropped to her hips. His fingers found the trim on her smallclothes and, even in the darkness, Sansa sensed his confusion. He stilled and ran the trim between two fingertips, seeming to try to make out what it would look like. A deep _mmm_ rose from his throat and thunder rolled. He grabbed her arms and held her away from him. Lightning flashed a few times in succession, revealing him to be looking hungrily at her breasts. Darkness cloaked them again and his hands were around her waist. He seemed to be wrestling with himself but then he quickly slid his hands upward, his thumbs moving over her stomach, until they bumped into her breasts. Palms. A fumbling light squeeze. Fingertips. The brush of calloused flesh across them. And then he spun away, his ragged breathing audible even over the storm.

"Gods, enough, _enough_." He sounded almost angry. A flash showed him running a hand through his hair, pushing it back off his face.

Another gale swept across the balcony, bringing with it a scattering of rain. A crash followed and Sansa wrenched her dress back up, Sandor quickly turning back to her. They were both breathing and listening hard. Sansa turned toward the doors, afraid someone had entered her room. _Lucy?_ Oh gods, she could not be found like this. Could. _Not._ She could tell Sandor was staring intently in the same direction. Another bolt of lightning split the sky and they both saw the shattered flowerpot on the stone. They exhaled as one.

"Seven hells," Sandor muttered in disgust. He found her wrist and dragged her inside, closing the doors behind him before taking her wrist again and pulling her over to the bed. Sansa couldn't breathe. She'd never figured out where she should stop him and now they were here and he was so ready and she . . . she was floundering.

Sandor dropped onto his side on the bed, his feet overhanging the end, before pulling her down with him. "I can't stay, little bird, but I can't leave yet."

Relief and objection pitched together inside her. "I know." Sansa wasn't sure why he couldn't leave yet but she was in no hurry to have him go. She rolled on to her opposite side, fitting her back against him. He moved his hips back but otherwise seemed content with that arrangement. His fingertips skimmed along her arm until they found her hand and he laced his fingers with hers. Sansa's head lay on his arm and his breath blew over her ear, his cheek resting lightly on her temple. The familiar scent of him seemed to permeate the air and Sansa breathed it in deeply and slowly. They lay in silence and watched the storm rage outside. After awhile, Sansa could not say how long, Sandor said quietly, "I should go now. No one's like to be out in this rain."

They rose and walked to Sansa's door together. He held her hands as he bent down and kissed her softly, breaking away too soon.

After he was gone, Sansa slipped out of her gown and dampened smallclothes. The storm was moving on, though a steady rain continued to fall. Her room was growing close and she stepped toward the balcony to crack the doors open before putting on her nightgown. _The plate!_ It would look suspicious if it was out there in the morning so, despite the darkness, she crept out onto the balcony to retrieve it. The air, cooler and damp but still delicious against her bare skin, made her more alert and for a moment she stood still and let it

wash over her body as the memories of Sandor's . . . was it loving? She smiled at the thought . . . played again in her mind. The memories made an achy tension pool in her lips, breasts, and between her legs. Something deep within her called to be satisfied but Sansa didn't know how to answer. She knew for a certainty that only Sandor could fulfill whatever that need was and she longed to be able to let him. She missed him already and, moving to the bench, she felt around for her hairpins, remembering the hungry look on his face when she'd undone her hair for him. A sigh escaped her lips. The end of their time together was coming. She didn't know when, she only wondered what would happen before then and how she would feel afterwards.

Sansa shook off the thought, picked up the plate, and returned inside. She washed up and crawled into bed naked, wishing Sandor was there to take her in his arms. The feel of the sheets on her skin was a poor substitute for the playful tickling of the wind. Sansa tossed and turned for a long time. When Sandor left, he'd said he'd see her on the morrow. Sansa wasn't sure if she'd imagined the emphasis he put on _see._


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning Sansa rose early, despite being tired. She did not know when she'd see Sandor but she knew she should try to keep to her usual routine, no matter how little it interested her.

"Will you be going to the market today, my lady?" Lucy asked as she helped Sansa dress.

"No, San- . . . Sandor Clegane advised against it. He said the rain would make the streets muddy and difficult to travel."

Lucy nodded in approval before bustling off to tend to Sansa's laundry. Sansa looked herself over in the mirror before casting her eyes toward the balcony. She'd felt free and powerful last night. Yes, it was a little embarrassing to think that Sandor had seen her naked breasts but it had only been when the lightning flashed. A part of her wanted him to look at her again and a part of her wanted to show herself to him. A blush crept up her cheeks at the idea. She'd made certain she put on pretty smallclothes that morning, silky things that made her feel like a woman grown. She wondered what Sandor's reaction would be if, her breath caught at the thought of _when_, he saw them but then shook herself out of such unladylike thoughts.

Sansa clasped the bracelet Sandor had given her around her wrist and slipped the dagger into her pocket. She made her way to the dining hall and broke her fast with Septa Mordane. The two then spent a peaceful hour praying at the sept. As her septa knelt before the Crone, Sansa looked up at the Maiden and wondered if she'd ever longed to be otherwise. The statue of the Maiden smiled beatifically, forever untouched and seemingly happy to be so. For the first time, Sansa's sense of kinship with the Maiden was tinged with pity. There was joy to be had in . . . in Sandor's arms. It seemed a shame to be deprived of that. _Perhaps the Maiden does not long for . . ._ Sansa wondered what it was_ she _longed for. Sandor, certainly, but the power to choose primarily. Sansa would remain a maid until her father allowed her marriage to Joffrey to take place, until the king and queen set a date, and until Joffrey chose to deflower her, no doubt right away. Of course, the marriage would only take place if there was no question her maidenhead was intact. All that was expected of Sansa was that she preserve her body until it was ready to be used by others to secure their own arrangements. The injustice of this, for injustice she now perceived it to be, made her uncomfortable and frustrated almost to the point of being angry. Sandor had given her a choice last night and she had chosen wrong when taking everybody but herself into consideration. She could not feel there was anything wrong in sharing what she'd shared with Sandor. He felt like sanctuary to her and she suspected he might feel the same about her. Still, truth be told, she was afraid of losing her maidenhead. She'd heard it would hurt and there would be blood and mess and just the thought made her shudder.

"Is anything amiss, my dear?"

"It's kind of you to inquire." Sansa took a steadying breath. "I'm merely tired. The storm kept me awake last night."

"Yes, it was quite a gale. It would have left us a foot of snow at home."

Sansa agreed but, much as she missed her home, Sandor was not there and so the north, at least for the present, had lost some of its appeal.

After leaving the sept, she and Septa Mordane made their way back toward the castle, picking their way around puddles and tracts of mud. The sky was the color of dull steel and a dampness hung in the air.

"Lady Sansa."

Sansa had not been aware of anyone behind them and hearing his voice so much earlier than she'd hoped to threw her heart into a spin.

"Good morning, my lord." Sansa fought to keep from grinning. He met her eye but his gaze dropped to her chest for just a moment and she felt her composure slip. Last night had been so wonderful she could scarcely stand still, the thrill of anticipation was coursing through her so violently. For his part, he looked as indifferent as ever and perhaps a little tired.

"I ask your leave to spend the morning in the training yard, if you have no need of an escort."

"The morning is yours, my lord. I don't anticipate leaving the Red Keep today."

Sandor nodded and headed in the direction of the stables.

"He's no fit guard for a lady of your standing, Sansa, dear, the Seven spare me for saying so," Septa Mordane intoned, her forehead creasing in displeasure.

The memory of the wind on her bare skin and the feel of Sandor against her as they lay in bed together suddenly made her blood run warmer. "He's one of the finest warriors in the Seven Kingdoms, Septa Mordane."

"A killer, and you, such a fine lady," her septa sniffed. "Surely one of the knights could have seen to your safety while the hunt goes on, if not someone from our _own_ household."

"He is better than any knight," Sansa replied immediately, aware that a trace of vehemence had entered her tone. "Queen Cersei would not have Prince Joffrey protected by anyone lesser. Everyone knows how much she loves her children."

"As you say, my lady, but Prince Joffrey is a boy and, while such rough company may do well enough for a lad, a lady's escort should be gentle and refined."

"I'm quite certain my lady mother and lord father would agree, having chosen you as my septa and companion."

Septa Mordane looked highly gratified and patted Sansa's arm affectionately.

"Don't fear for me while Sandor Clegane has charge of my care, septa. His address may be lacking but my safety is assured. And it is only for a little while," she added, striving to sound matter-of-fact instead of wistful.

"You have the right of it I'm sure, my dear. Your charming betrothed will return soon along with the rest of the court and things will be as they were."

Sansa pushed a smile onto her face as her heart sank. "Just so."

After she and Septa Mordane parted company, Sansa wandered about the castle. She considered going to watch Sandor train but a part of her resisted. So much had happened the previous night, she needed time to digest it, much as she wanted to be with him again. He'd excused himself from her company so perhaps he needed some space as well.

Eventually, Sansa found herself at the library. Tyrion Lannister was gathering up some books as she arrived. Hearing her footfall, he turned. "Ah, Lady Sansa. What brings you here? I was not aware that you were a great reader."

Sansa fought off a frown. Did _all _of the Lannisters think her unintelligent? "I enjoy reading very much, Lord Tyrion, but the day is so dreary I thought perhaps a book of songs would be just the thing to lift the gloom."

"I prefer history, even with the gloom, but, if you'll permit me, I believe we have one or two books of song that might serve."

Sansa followed as the Imp waddled amongst the bookcases. After he stopped and scanned the shelves, he pointed to one above even Sansa's head. "That one there may interest you."

Sansa reached for a volume.

"No, the other, the green binding."

Sansa laid her hand on the correct book and pulled it down from the shelf.

"Yes, that's the one. It was a favorite of Myrcella's when she was small and I read it to her often. The songs are organized chronologically by region of origin so, in a way, it's a historical text as well."

Sansa flipped through the pages and saw maps and beautiful illustrations along with a number of songs she didn't recognize. She was excited at the prospect of losing herself within them for a little while. She smiled at Lord Tyrion. "This will do perfectly. Thank you ever so much."

The Imp inclined his head. His mismatched eyes disconcerted her but she held her smile. "Enjoy, Lady Sansa." He made his way back toward the front of the library and, after a moment, Sansa heard him leave.

She walked to a marble alcove removed from the shelves where a grate contained a small fire. Sansa pulled a chair close and sunk into the cushions, drawing her feet up under her and eagerly opening the book. She decided to begin in the north and smiled as she read through the songs she'd heard and sung all her life. Towards the end of the section was a song she didn't know called _The First Man_. The illustrations were done in deep shades of black and red with touches of blue and grey. The First Man depicted sat tall on his lively black horse, glaring out of the page with the confidence of a conqueror, his dark hair caught in the wind, his strong hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The familiarity of that look jolted her and she stared back at him for a long moment before moving on to the lyrics.

_See him there, on his horse so fierce,_

_Long bronze sword, made to pierce,_

_Leather shield is his defense,_

_Grey eyes narrowed, muscles tense,_

_Think none stronger crossed this land,_

_For he is the first, he is the First Man._

_Hear him there, rasping in Old Tongue,_

_Harsh, cold language, no songs to be sung,_

_There is truth in his words, however told,_

_Angry, bitter, sullen, bold,_

_He may be savage but understand,_

_Solitary is the First Man._

_Sheltered there, 'hind his icy wall,_

_A steady warmth will melt it all,_

_Leaving him open and unprotected,_

_Hunted, hated, unaccepted,_

_So, cold and solid, built to plan,_

_It is this wall that protects the First Man._

_Forgive him then, for cutting trees,_

_Setting fire to the dark red leaves,_

_He trusts his strength and his eyes alone,_

_As he strives to build his home,_

_Opposition will not long stand,_

_Against the proud and strong First Man._

_Know the children were strong, too,_

_And fought with water, deep and blue,_

_From their gods they drew their power,_

_Flooding the Neck from atop their Tower,_

_Then peace was forged across the land,_

_They lived in union with the First Man._

_Trust him then, for he made a pact,_

_Protecting those he once attacked,_

_Horse and shield and sword he turned,_

_Weirwood trees he left unburned,_

_Think none more loyal, take his hand,_

_For he is the first, he is the First Man._

The song reminded her of Sandor in many ways and Sansa sat feeling thoughtful for some time. _First, indeed, _she mused.

She chided herself for not using their time apart to do something other than think about him so she turned the page and tried to be absorbed by _The Night That Ended. _She wondered how Jon was and if taking the black had made him happy or if his experience, like her own in King's Landing, had not quite lived up to his expectations. With a sigh, she moved on to the Riverlands and absently read over the lyrics to _On a Misty Morn._ These songs reminded her too much of her mother and she could feel herself sinking into glumness. Surely a rousing song would be found in the catalog from the Iron Islands. She read _Steel Rain_ with marginal interest. The tune was lively enough but the subject matter didn't interest her. Her heart was not to be captivated by images of rain and the sea on this overcast day. Finally she gave in and flipped to the songs of the Westerlands. Sansa skipped over the ones about Lann the Clever, being in no mood to celebrate Lannister history. Historical ballads for the region were otherwise few and far between (she noticed _The Rains of Castamere_ was not in the volume, indicating it had been compiled at least two generations ago) but she did, however, come across a pretty song called _My Knight. _Each stanza was illustrated with a gilt-edged oval depicting in lush greens, cool whites, and calm grays the scene described.

_Brave and strong and fair and true,_

_All these things to me are you,_

_Let me join you on your horse,_

_And we will trot a merry course,_

_My knight, my knight, my knight._

_Shining steel and sharpened lance,_

_Thundering hooves on summer grass,_

_Beating hearts and courtly speech,_

_Victory's within your reach,_

_My knight, my knight, my knight._

_Righteous cause and noble deed,_

_Handsome knight on fearless steed,_

_Truth and justice brought to pass,_

_Grateful lord, admiring lass,_

_My knight, my knight, my knight._

_Tie a ribbon to your sword,_

_As you leave to serve your lord,_

_My faithfulness will never waver,_

_To you alone I give my favor,_

_My knight, my knight, my knight._

_And when you once again return,_

_Our lips will meet, our hearts will churn,_

_And I will pray I may deserve,_

_My lord, my husband, and my _ser_,_

_My knight, my knight, my knight._

_Build us castles in the sky,_

_And up to them we both shall fly,_

_Stars and clouds our neighbors be,_

_And I will love eternally,_

_My knight, my knight, my knight. _

Sansa sighed at the sweetness of the images and wished she'd known this song as a child. She read it over and over again until she had the words and melody committed to heart. After that the Reach's W_hen Willum's Wife was Wet_ and Dorne's _The Dornishman's Wife_ held no attraction for her. A simple life with the love of a good man formed her idea of the seven heavens. Sansa closed the book and stared into the fire, Sandor lingering at the edges of her thoughts. A couple of hours had passed and her rumbling stomach made her extract herself from her upholstered cocoon.

On the way to the dining hall, she walked along an exterior corridor and saw Sandor and Harry in the yard below. She stepped back into the shadows and watched as Sandor pulled off his dog's-head helm and shook out his long, sweaty hair before tipping his head back to drink deeply from a wineskin. Harry was saying something to him and Sandor nodded before taking another drink. A few knights were there but the field was mainly composed of men-at-arms. The atmosphere was mild, it contented Sansa to see, and she walked on.

Jeyne was in the dining hall and Sansa joined her, grateful for the distraction. They caught up with each other as they ate and, over cards in Jeyne's room later, they made plans to pack a meal and eat outside the following afternoon. Sansa returned to her own room and took her sewing out to the balcony. The clouds were breaking to let the late afternoon sun warm the fields and she hummed as she stitched, missing at first the knocking on her door. It was Sandor.

"I've come to escort you to the dining hall for the evening meal."

"How very thoughtful. Thank you. I'll be ready in just a moment."

He followed her to the doors leading to the balcony but did not step outside while she gathered up her sewing. When Sansa turned, she saw him looking at the stone bench and felt the weight of his eyes on her when she returned inside and made ready to leave. After Sandor closed the door behind them, he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and softly ran his fingertips over her knuckles as they walked down the stairs. She breathed in the clean scent of him and felt as content as could be until they exited the Tower. Sansa then adopted a neutral expression and Sandor conducted her through the muddy courtyard in the most perfunctory manner. They entered the castle and she reluctantly released his arm. She should have had food sent to her room and asked Sandor to dine with her again. Instead, she sat with Arya, who cast a malevolent glare at Sandor, who smirked in return before taking up a post against the wall.

"I wish you two would be civil."

"I wish he hadn't killed my friend."

"I wish he hadn't, either, but you know it was under orders."

Arya wrinkled her nose. "He _knew_ Micah didn't attack Joffrey. He _knew_ it!"

"Lower your voice, please. He wasn't there so he didn't _know_. Let's not argue about this again."

Her sister gave her a look but only said, "Why do you care anyway? The Hound doesn't care. He just growls and snaps at me."

"Perhaps because you attack him all the time."

"I don't -"

"Arya, _please._" Sansa tried to think of a way to convince her to stop being so impolite to Sandor. "Maybe it . . . _bothers_ him that he had to . . . do that."

Arya scoffed as she spooned some gravy over her potatoes.

"Not everyone gets to do as they please all the time."

"Joffrey does."

"You're right." Arya looked mollified by that. Sansa continued quietly, "He gets to have Sandor do his bidding and Joffrey is not always fair."

"He's _never_ fair."

"No. He's not," Sansa answered, her voice barely a whisper.

Arya looked at Sandor from under her brow and seemed to consider Sansa's words for a moment. When she spoke again, Sansa was prepared for another argument and so she was surprised when, instead, Arya said, "So he's _Sandor_ now?"

The air seemed to freeze in Sansa's lungs. "He is not a _ser_ or a lord and I think calling him _Hound_ is rude."

Arya took a large bite of chicken and chewed it while looking at Sansa. Sansa did not want to discuss Sandor any further so she asked, "How are your dancing lessons going?"

Her sister's eyes dropped to her plate. "They're fine."

"What are you learning?"

Arya named a couple of northern dances in a somewhat questioning tone.

"Why are you being taught those? It's not likely we'll do them while in the south."

"I don't know!" she snapped. "I just do what the dancing master tells me to do!"

Sansa didn't understand why her sister had to be so touchy. She surmised that the lessons must not have improved her sister's skill. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sure they're a good foundation, and you won't be living in King's Landing forever so maybe that's why you're learning them."

"Maybe."

Sansa delicately cut her string beans as Arya took a drink from her goblet. "Jeyne and I are going to eat our midday meal outside tomorrow. Would you like to come with us?"

"Maybe," Arya answered absently, looking around the hall.

Sansa dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. She was a little put out that she was making such an effort to be courteous when Arya could scarcely be bothered to do the same. It frustrated her all the more because she wanted to spend every moment with Sandor and knowing she couldn't made her edgy. She couldn't even _talk_ about him - not with Jeyne and certainly not with Arya. Sansa missed her mother so much and, not for the first time, she wished she had a sister more like herself and less like the bruised and wild one across the table. The stress of hiding her affair (the very term made her wince) coupled with the excitement and uncertainty she felt over her increasing intimacy with Sandor made her nerves raw and ragged. If she discussed her worries with Sandor, for she'd never be able to tell him how he made her blood fizz with joy, he'd take it as a sign of rejection or, worse, decide the matter for her and stay away. No, she was stuck. Filling the hours she couldn't be with Sandor was taxing enough without enduring her sister's incivilities. Really, what was so hard about making polite conversation?

"What are your plans for tomorrow, that you'd rather not come with us?"

"What?" Arya dragged her gaze back over to her sister.

"I was asking about your plans, since you don't want to join us."

"Who?"

"Jeyne and me. What do you keep looking for?"

"Nothing."

Sansa huffed out a sigh. She let her eyes move to where Sandor was standing. He was looking at her, his expression as stony as ever. She frowned, feeling inexplicably cranky and ill-suited to be in company. He approached the table. "Yes, Lady Sansa?"

"I'm ready to return to my room."

"I'll go back with you," Arya chimed.

Now_ she starts paying attention?_ Sansa thought a little resentfully.

The three of them walked through the castle and out into the courtyard. Sandor offered Sansa his arm and she leaned into him. Arya hopped over puddles, making Sansa want to scream. At least she wasn't spraying them with mud. When they finally reached Arya's room, Sansa gave her sister a prompting look.

"Goodnight, Sansa." A pause. "Thank you for seeing me back, _Sandor,_" she added with a wicked smile.

Sansa opened her mouth to scold her sister but Arya ducked into her room and shut the door with a laugh.

"I apologize for her free speech."

"Seems a habit with you Stark girls."

Sansa stiffened.

Sandor brought his mouth close to her ear. "I like it. You're honest."

Sansa smiled shyly and they climbed the stairs arm-in-arm and walked down the hall in silence. Sansa's heart stopped when Sandor followed her into her room and encircled her from behind with his arms. He bent to kiss the back of her neck, sending little tremors of pleasure down her spine.

"You're teasing me."

Sandor gave a surprised laugh. "I can do more than tease, girl, don't you worry about that."

Sansa's stomach clenched.

He chuckled low. "Or is that what you want?" He leaned over her and kissed her collarbone, the hands that had been at her sides sliding up just slightly.

Sansa hedged awkwardly. There was no right answer. She wanted more but how much more, she wasn't sure. More than was good for her, probably, especially if he kept kissing her.

"What do you want?"

"All," he answered quietly, his lips moving from her collarbone over her shoulder to her back. He pushed her gown aside and kissed along her back to the top of her arm, making Sansa squirm. "Send your maid away for the night. Let me have you."

"Now you really are teasing me." She giggled nervously as heat blotched her skin.

Sandor moved to stand in front of her, amusement playing across his features. In a flash, he scooped her into his arms and was carrying her to bed. He laid her down and let his weight press her into the feather mattress. His lips found her neck and trailed down lower and suddenly a hand was on her breast.

Sansa was suffocating. Sandor exhaled noisily and kissed between her breasts, his hand pressing one against his face before he turned to draw his tongue over the top of it. His fingertips dipped into her gown, taking the entirety of her breast into his broad palm. Sansa's hands fluttered against his arms, wanting to stop him and wanting to succumb at the same time. Her mind was racing in circles, helpless against the instincts of her body. "Mmm," she murmured.

"More, little bird?" He turned his wrist, forcing the fabric of her gown aside, exposing her. Her nipple was between his lips before she could draw breath to answer. His suckling seemed to churn a well of desire within her. She pressed herself against him, her strength to refuse him all but gone.

"Much more," she breathed.

Sandor chuckled and returned to her breast, freeing the other one moments later and sipping at it softly. He pressed a kiss to her breastbone while squeezing her flesh against either side of his face. "Gods, you're perfect," he murmured.

For some reason, tears pricked the backs of her eyes.

When she didn't answer, he drew back to look at her. "I'd satisfy you if I could. Believe that."

Warmth stole over Sansa's cheeks. "I do. And I . . . I would . . ."

Joy suffused his face. At least, that's what Sansa thought it was, never having seen him look that way before. "Would you?" he rasped, looking intently into her eyes, his own oddly glassy.

The Maiden help her, it was the truth. She nodded, terrified to voice what might be taken for a promise. Fear pressed the air out of her lungs. He leaned in to kiss her while gently pulling up the neckline of her gown. He stood and pulled her to her feet, hugging her hard against him. Sansa felt him draw in a deep shaky breath. An instant later he shoved her away and sprang toward the door.

Lucy walked in carrying a basket of clothing, singing under her breath, but froze when she saw her lady was not alone. "I beg your pardon."

"There is nothing to pardon, Lucy." She looked at Sandor, her mind emptying of everything but what she'd just said.

"The market streets are still likely to be muddy tomorrow, Lady Sansa." He sounded bored.

"Perhaps you're right."

"I am. I won't have my horse going lame because he slipped in the mud."

Sansa tried to summon a look of annoyance. Lucy was staring at Sandor, a shocked look on her face. "I've been indoors all day and would like some fresh air. You may escort me to the godswood tomorrow, if you think it will be dry enough."

He shrugged. "You don't need my horse to go to the godswood."

Lucy seemed to realize she was staring and moved toward Sansa's wardrobe.

"Fine. I will meet you in the main hall tomorrow after I break my fast. Lucy, has the cobbler returned my boots?"

"I will look, Lady Sansa." She exited into the dressing room.

Sandor bowed his head briefly. "My lady."

"My lord," Sansa answered a little breathlessly.

"Until tomorrow."


	8. Chapter 8

That night Sansa dreamed. She was reclining in bed, the soles of her feet firm on the feather mattress. She began to bleed. _Oh no, not on the sheet._ But she couldn't move her feet and the blood continued to trickle forth, gathering and pooling vertically, the volume more than what made sense for the flow. Her belly felt sore. Surely this much blood-loss boded ill. She began to feel panicked. She couldn't move from the waist down. The wall of blood loomed higher and higher and then it began to take shape, bulging out here and there, a head forming atop massive shoulders. Drips ran down half the head, sinking into deep, dark crags, the other half was smooth. It continued to define itself and she realized it was Sandor. A part of her felt relieved but his bloody form continued to grow, towering above her prone body, and then he began to pitch forward, solid as a statue despite his liquid state. She braced herself as best she could, feet, hips, back, and elbows frozen to the bed as they were. Horrifyingly slow was his descent. She tried to scream but couldn't. He finally crashed into her with a mighty splash, soaking her, drowning her, washing over and into her, filling her and making her sputter, her skin and bedding awash with the thick, sticky blood. She closed her mouth only to find it filling from the inside. She turned and spat, disgusted and desperate. It was too much. Too much! Suddenly cool air rushed into her lungs and Sansa sprang upright in her bed, breathlessly relieved to be awake. She gasped a few times as her heart slowed to a more normal pace. Sansa looked around, expecting to find her sheets blood-soaked though she knew it to be a dream. Relief was overtaken by confusion. What had that been about? She shook the image of Sandor, terrifying in his inevitability, from her mind, threw back the covers, and quickly walked to her balcony. The brisk morning air washed the remnants of panic away. The sounds of men and horses in the courtyard below had never been more welcome.

_Silly girl. _Sansa took one more deep breath and moved into her morning routine, determinedly pushing the dream's images from her mind each time they threatened to intrude. She nibbled at the fruit and bread Lucy had brought to break her fast and then left a little early to meet Sandor.

The main hall was empty, save for the morning sun streaming in the windows. Sansa looked at the various tapestries decorating the walls as she waited for Sandor to arrive to escort her to the godswood. The light footsteps approaching from behind told her someone besides Sandor had arrived.

"You look so like your mother with the sun in your hair."

Sansa turned. "Good morning, Lord Baelish."

"It was, but you have bettered it, Lady Sansa," the master of coin replied, bowing extravagantly. When he rose, his grey-green eyes swept over her, a look of mocking approval settling on his handsome features.

Something about her mother's childhood friend always made Sansa feel unwillingly exposed. "You are kind to say so, my lord."

His smile didn't reach his ever-appraising eyes as he said, "Allow my kindness to extend past my words for I am at your service, my lady."

Sansa looked down to hide her confusion. She did not want Lord Baelish's company but his position, his association with her mother, and Sansa's own nature prevented her from issuing a curt dismissal. Besides, he had never _done_ anything to her; it was his _manner_ she found unsettling. "I am bound for the godswood, my lord, to pray for my lord father's safety, and for that of the king and prince, as well. The prince's own sworn shield protects me while he is gone so I need not trouble you. I know you must be busy with more important things."

"I hope you never believe me too busy to be a friend to you," he said quietly as he stepped closer.

"No, my lord. I . . . I am grateful for your kindness to my family."

A coolness passed over his face and it chilled her. "I was ever a friend to your Aunt Lysa, as well. The Tully girls and I were . . . quite close, growing up. You have the Tully look." He raised a hand as though he would touch her hair but heavy footsteps sounded in the hall and he lowered his hand to his side.

"I will pray for her as well."

He gave her a withering look. "As you wish but the gods aren't the only ones who answer the prayers of pretty girls on their knees. You might look for a surer source of return one day."

Sansa wasn't sure of his meaning. "As you say. Good day, Lord Baelish."

The tight smile returned to his face. "Lady Sansa." He sketched a bow and was gone.

Sansa turned toward Sandor's arrival. He was wearing light brown breeches and a blue tunic that darkened his gray eyes. His sword was strapped to his back and two wineskins rested at his hip. "Were you talking to someone?" he asked.

"Lord Baelish."

Sandor curled his lip. "What did he want?"

Sansa repeated the conversation but Sandor made no reply beyond a grunt.

The godswood was cool, the sunlight filtering through the tree canopy dappling the grass below. Sansa knelt on her cloak, bowed her head, and began to pray.

"You're actually praying? You should practice with your dagger some more."

"I will but I want to pray first." She bowed her head again. She'd barely begun to ask the gods to watch over her father when Sandor interrupted again.

"Are you really going to pray for Joffrey, like you told Lord Baelish?"

Sansa's shoulders slumped as she turned toward him. "Yes. I'll ask the gods to give him a merciful heart."

Sandor snorted.

"I'll pray for you, too, if you like."

He looked amused. "And why would the gods care about me?"

"Because I do."

Sandor's face became more serious. "What would you ask them?"

Sansa thought for a moment. "To watch over you."

Sandor drew his sword and tapped the blade against his opposite palm. "I can watch over myself."

"To watch over us, then."

Sandor gave her a look she couldn't read but said nothing further so Sansa resumed her prayers to the soft crush of grass and the _whoosh_ of Sandor's sword as he practiced his swordwork behind her.

When she finished, he said, "Let's go over what I showed you the other day."

For the next hour and a half, Sansa repeated the various moves, putting Sandor in front of her so she'd have something at which to aim. The large clearing in the godswood made everything feel different. There was more space in which to move but also more sides from which she was vulnerable. Whenever she began to feel overwhelmed or frustrated, Sandor would say, "You're doing well," or demonstrate again what he wanted her to do, explaining why it would be effective. Sansa worked hard at it, wanting to see that look of pride in Sandor's eyes whenever she performed competently. After spending awhile fending off attacks from behind, Sansa was huffing and puffing and they decided to rest for a bit.

They settled in the grass, Sandor offering her one of the wineskins, which Sansa accepted gratefully. She soaked in the peace of the godswood, so quiet and private, a world apart from the grime and noise of King's Landing. Sandor sat cross-legged and rested his sword across his thighs. He produced a whetstone and showed Sansa how to hone the edge of her dagger before dragging it over his sword's blade. The steady _shhh shhh shhh_ was lulling. Dragon's Breath was growing nearby and Sansa picked one of the dark red blooms, twirling the stem between two fingers and brushing the soft petals against her nose. She began to hum quietly, causing Sandor to glance over at her with a smile. She wanted to lean against him but he needed his arms to work the whetstone over the steel so she shifted and tentatively rested her back against his. "Does that bother you?"

"No."

Sansa relaxed more of her weight against him, her head between his shoulder blades, the rolling of his muscles rocking her agreeably. She pinched a crimson petal between her fingertips and moved them back and forth over the waxy surface. Under her breath, she began to sing. "Brave and strong and fair and true, all these things to me are you . . ." She was most of the way through _My Knight_ when she realized Sandor was sitting straight and very still.

"I'm sorry. Was I distracting you?"

"No. It's been years since I've heard that song."

"You know it?"

"Aye." He sounded sad. "Finish singing it. If you like."

Sansa turned and knelt, wrapping her arms around Sandor's neck, her belly against his back. She sang it softly from the beginning, Sandor taking a few halfhearted swipes along his blade with the whetstone before he just stopped and listened. "Stars and clouds our neighbors be, and I will love eternally, my knight, my knight, my knight." Her voice trailed off and they both remained still for a long moment.

Sandor brought one of her hands to his mouth and gently kissed the back of it. Sansa kissed his cheek in return. "How do you know that song?" she asked.

"My mother used to sing it to me and my sister after her."

Sansa stood and walked around him before seating herself again where she could see his face. "Will you tell me about them?"

Sandor pressed his lips together. "Not much to tell. They're both dead."

"I'm sorry." She had known Sandor over a year now and had never thought of him as having a mother. Or a father. Certainly not a sister. Ser Gregor, who was pure nemesis, seemed to exist merely to bring pain and destruction to the lives of everyone he encountered. Sansa looked at Sandor, half his face ridged with leather-like scars because of his brother, the other half plain, though not unattractive. There was a well of kindness within him, of patience, intelligence, and understanding. How had the whole of Westeros not noticed it after all these years?

"My mother died giving birth to my sister."

It was a common-enough event, though still tragic, and Sansa made a sympathetic noise.

"It might have been for the best. She never knew what Gregor became. Or me."

Sansa did not want to speak ill of his brother so she asked, "What of your father?" She already knew that, after Sandor's being burned, his father put about a story that his bedding had caught fire, rather than holding Gregor responsible. Gregor, who had put his brother's face against a brazier's coals for daring to play with a toy knight too childish for a boy of Gregor's age.

"Hunting accident. Gregor was with him. I left the next day." He looked down and ran his thumb along the edge of his sword, the thinnest line of red showing a moment later.

A chill ran down Sansa's spine. She didn't want to ask.

Sandor went on. "My sister, Alynor, would sing that song to me. She knew I wanted to be a knight."

Sansa was riveted. Her mind rapidly filled in the huge gaps between Sandor's few words.

"I came home one day and she wasn't waiting for me. An accident, they said, but I knew. They wouldn't let me see her body. I never found out what he did to her." He put the pad of his thumb to his lips and sucked off the blood.

Tears welled up in Sansa's eyes. How he must hate that song. "I'm sorry. I won't sing it again."

"I tried to forget her. I only put her portrait on my mantel after we came back from Winterfell."

Sansa didn't know what to say.

"I don't want to forget her, little bird, or the song she used to sing me."

Sansa threw herself at him then, burying her face in his neck and crying freely. "It's not right," she sobbed. Sandor held her tight and she felt a wetness at her temple. When she at last pulled away from him, cuffing at her eyes and sniffing, Sandor stood and took a step away.

He gazed into the trees. When he turned around, he reached out his hand and pulled Sansa to her feet. "Get out your dagger. There's more I can show you."

Sansa did as he asked and set her feet so she was balanced yet able to advance upon him.

"You're going to aim for my side. Put your other hand up like this." He held his one hand in a defensive position.

Sansa made ready.

"Block me." He moved one arm at less than half-speed.

Sansa blocked that arm and made to plant her sheathed dagger between his ribs.

It was then that the third person in the godswood made their presence known.


	9. Chapter 9

A figure emerging from the trees caused Sandor and Sansa to turn simultaneously. Sandor sprang forward while Sansa, paralyzed with fear, felt a scream rising in her throat. Sandor's broad back blocked her view but she heard a familiar voice cry, "What are you doing?!" and then her sister danced back out of his reach. Sansa nearly fainted with relief but Sandor caught Arya by the wrist and dragged her forward.

"How long have you been here?" he demanded angrily, shaking her arm.

"Get _off_ me!" Arya wrenched her arm back but Sandor would not let go.

"Spying, are you? Stark bitch or not, I'll -"

"Let go of her!"

Sandor was in a towering rage and he shoved Arya away so hard she stumbled and nearly fell. He was breathing heavily, radiating menace, every inch the Hound. He kept his sword low but the tip of his blade was pointed up and Sansa knew it would only take the work of an instant for him to cut Arya to ribbons. Sansa was reasonably certain he _wouldn't _but she also knew Arya wouldn't hesitate to provoke him and, so, she hurried to intercede. "Arya, what are you doing here?"

Arya rubbed her arm where Sandor had grabbed her and threw him a dark look before she turned her attention to her sister. "I came to find you."

Sansa's blood was still careening through her veins. She could hardly think straight. She only knew she'd avoided by the narrowest possible margin a life-destroying if not deadly scandal. Sansa knew well Arya's dislike of Sandor but at least, at _least_, she could be depended upon not to spread vicious gossip about her sister.

"How did you know I was here? Did you talk to Lord Baelish?"

"What? Lord Baelish? No. Why would I talk to _him_?"

"Then how - ?"

"I asked Lucy."

Sansa wilted. _Lucy_. Of course.

"And how long were you sneaking through the bushes?" Sandor barked. Violent intentions were practically running off him.

"I wasn't _sneaking._ I was just . . . quiet as a cat." She sounded proud, though Sansa couldn't imagine what there was to be proud of.

"Quiet as a cat," Sandor rumbled with contempt, spitting in the dirt. "Bugger that. Dead as a doornail if I ever catch you sticking your nose where it doesn't belong again."

Arya opened her mouth to retort but Sansa cut her off. "Why were you looking for me?"

With a show of ignoring Sandor, Arya turned to answer. "I thought I'd come with you and Jeyne."

"Oh!" Sansa was surprised Arya had heard the invitation, given her inattention the previous day.

"I didn't know _he'd_ be here. Is _he_ going, too?"

"Yes," Sansa answered automatically. "He . . . he has to."

For a moment the three of them stood there, Sandor glaring at Arya, Sansa sagging with relief, and Arya looking around the clearing with interest.

"So . . . what were you doing?"

"_Nothing_," Sandor snapped. "And if you ever say otherwise, I'll -"

"It didn't look like nothing. It looked like -"

"What did I just say, wolf-bitch? It was _nothing_."

Sansa made to put her hand on Sandor's forearm but Arya's eyes narrowed at the gesture so she tried to make it look like she was waving off his words.

"Arya, it wasn't -"

"Is he showing you how to fight?" She sounded interested rather than accusatory.

"Yes. Well, no. Not exactly. It's more defensive than -"

"Why?"

"What's that?" Sandor asked, nodding toward a short, slim sword hanging from Arya's belt that Sansa hadn't noticed before.

"It's _mine_," she said, laying a hand on the hilt and turning her hip away from Sandor.

"It's castle-forged."

"So?"

"Ayra." Sandor and Arya both looked at Sansa. "_Please_ don't tell Father about this. It would upset him. Please don't tell _anyone_."

Arya gave her sister an assessing look. "I won't. So long as you don't tell anyone about _this,_" she said, indicating her sword. "Especially not Septa Mordane."

"I won't."

"You, either," Arya said aggressively to Sandor.

"Pffft. Barely enough steel there to make a spoon."

Arya glared at him. Before they could continue bickering, Sansa said, "If you're going to come with us, we need to tell Jeyne to make sure there's enough food."

"I'll tell her," Arya said, about to sprint off.

"We can walk back together." Sansa didn't add that she was still scared from their near-discovery and the three of them being seen together would look far less suspicious than she and Sandor being seen too much in their own company.

Once they were back in the castle, Arya went to find Jeyne and Sandor escorted Sansa to her room, standing in the hall as she washed up for her outing with her friend. When she was ready, they made their way to the field Sansa and Jeyne had decided would be the perfect place to gather. Jeyne and Arya were already there and, not to Sansa's surprise, so was Willard. Their greeting of her was warm, Sandor's reception was less so. A large blanket was spread on the ground and Jeyne and Arya had begun to set out food, Willard cutting slices off a roast. While Sandor tethered their horses, Sansa sat and began to split rolls, only noticing after a moment that Sandor remained standing upon his return.

"Won't you sit, my lord?"

"No." His eyes scanned the horizon as though expecting to see enemy hordes spilling over the hilltops at any moment.

"You must be hungry."

"I'm not."

Sansa was growing frustrated. This wouldn't be any fun if Sandor did not join in. "I insist," she said gently.

He met her eye with a look of displeasure but lowered himself down to the ground. Sansa smiled at him but he looked away and continued to survey the surroundings. Arya, Jeyne, and Willard were debating how to lay out the food so Sansa said quietly, "We're in the middle of a field. We'll see anyone coming from some distance."

"Aye, but we can be seen as well."

Sansa's eyes roamed over the fields but she saw nothing to excite alarm. She saw nothing at all, in fact, except for trees and grass.

The food was served and Sansa nibbled at her sandwich as Arya asked Willard if he was familiar with the Braavosi style of fencing. Sansa wanted to cringe. It was such an unladylike topic of conversation and who cared about Braavos?

"I'm somewhat familiar with it, my lady. I once crossed paths with a sellsword who'd been trained in water dancing."

Arya's eyes lit up and she launched into a series of questions. Despite repeated attempts, Jeyne couldn't get a word in edgewise.

"You going to Braavos, girl?" Sandor asked over Arya's latest question, sounding bored as could be.

Arya looked at him like he'd gone mad. "No."

"Then why learn it? Seems like Westerosi killing would be more useful than Braavosi dancing."

"It's _fencing_, not _killing_, and who said anything about learning?"

Sandor snorted and Arya frowned at him.

_Surely he doesn't think she's learning water dancing_, Sansa thought. She'd noticed Arya didn't have that strange little sword on her belt anymore. It just didn't make sense. Arya had a dancing master, not a fencing master, and the thought of her killing anyone was just absurd.

Jeyne, clearly grateful for the opening, said, "Knowing how to dance is always worthwhile. Sansa, do you think the king will hold a feast when he returns from the hunt?"

"I don't know."

"You should suggest it. After all, he's going to be your good-father one day," Jeyne added with a smile.

Sansa looked down demurely but was really hiding her discomfort. She didn't want to think about her impending marriage to Joffrey, and certainly not while trying to enjoy an outing in Sandor's company.

Willard laughed and said, "If he holds a feast, we'll all be dining on wild boar."

"Wild boar?" Jeyne's eyes sparkled. She plainly didn't know what he meant but was pleased the conversation had turned to feasts, a subject better suited to her knowledge than fencing.

"Yes, I've heard tell he's caught the trail of one and means to hunt it."

"How terrifying that sounds!" Jeyne giggled.

"How long do you think it will take King Robert to kill it?" Sansa asked, hopeful of an answer suggesting a long period of time.

Willard shrugged. "That depends on how long it takes him to find it, my lady. I imagine they could be back the day after next, if he's quick about it." He seemed to remember Sandor's presence and added, "I mean, if the boar hasn't traveled too far, that is."

"Can water dancing be used in a hunt?" Arya asked Willard.

With an exasperated huff, Jeyne cut in. "Arya, why don't you share with Willard your knowledge of horses? You have such an affinity with them."

Arya's mouth fell open, a look of pained disbelief crossing her face. Sansa knew Jeyne was put out at having to share Willard's attention but she was disappointed in her friend and eager to smooth over her hurtful comment. "An affinity _for_ them, I think you mean, Jeyne. But you're right. Arya is a good rider. She's much more comfortable in a saddle than I am."

Arya closed her mouth and looked at Sansa with a trace of gratitude. Jeyne pouted.

"You have a fine mount," Willard commented to Sandor, oblivious to any undercurrent.

"Aye."

"Which farrier do you use?"

"The king's," Sandor said flatly.

Willard looked embarrassed. "Of course."

"I see you got your billet strap fixed. Mind if I take a look?"

Willard rose hastily. "Not at all. Will you excuse us for a moment, Lady Sansa, Lady Arya, Lady Jeyne?"

They all assented and Sandor asked Willard which saddler he used as they walked over to where the horses were tethered.

Jeyne mumbled an apology to Arya, who accepted it by popping some more roast beef into her mouth. Sansa caught the words "gold cloaks" drifting over from where Sandor and Willard stood. She turned in their direction and saw them talking but neither were looking at the horse or his saddle. Sansa remembered telling Sandor that Willard had told Jeyne some of them were fighting but that was several days ago now. She'd completely forgotten about it. Why would they be talking about that now?

After a couple of minutes, they returned.

"I'm afraid we've neglected the ladies," Willard said with a smile at Jeyne as he sank back down onto the blanket.

Sandor's eyes roved over the three girls and stopped on Sansa. He wasn't smiling, but that wasn't unusual.

"Not at all," Sansa assured him.

"No, this has been an enjoyable afternoon," added Jeyne, her spirits reviving a little at Willard's smile.

"What's for dessert?" Arya asked, opening the basket of food. "Here, Sansa," she said, handing over a partially untied cloth containing several lemon cakes.

Sansa smiled and took one before handing the parcel to Sandor. He met her eye and she felt heat seep under her cheeks.

"The walnut bread is for Willard," Jeyne declared.

"My favorite," he said, accepting it from Arya but smiling at Jeyne who bloomed in response. Arya looked away and rolled her eyes before taking the lemon cakes Sandor offered her.

The five ate in a satisfied silence for a few moments and lingered awhile longer before packing up and returning to the castle.

After parting from Arya, Jeyne, and Willard at the stables, Sansa and Sandor made their way back to the Tower of the Hand.

"Do you think King Robert will find that boar?"

"There's not much he'd let stop him."

Sansa caught a note of respect in his voice. "You admire him."

"In some ways."

"Such as?"

"He fought for the woman he loved. He thought Rhaegar wronged him and he fought back."

"But in other ways?"

Sandor looked around. "He lacks control. He's taken on too much. Cersei. The kingdom. He should've found another rebellion."

Sansa considered that. "Maybe he's never found another love worthy of it."

Sandor snorted. "He finds love whenever he wants it."

Sansa didn't want to think on that too much. She also didn't want to implicate herself in eavesdropping but she couldn't imagine why he and Willard would have been discussing the gold cloaks. "Did you enjoy the afternoon?"

"Parts of it."

"Willard is pleasant."

"Lady Jeyne seems to think so."

Sansa wasn't getting anywhere. She had to focus the conversation. "Do men-at-arms like him often associate with the gold cloaks?"

Sandor's eyes cut over to hers. "Heard that, did you?"

"I wasn't listening. I couldn't help but hear."

"No, you wouldn't listen." Sandor exhaled before continuing quietly. "Willard seems to think the gold cloaks were fighting over gold."

"Why?"

"What's to argue about unless it's changing hands and not ending up in theirs?"

Sansa had no ideas about that. She and Sandor fell silent as they moved through the crowded courtyard.

Once they reached her door, Sandor glanced up and down the hallway before quietly rumbling, "We'll have to be more careful."

Sansa didn't like what that seemed to imply though she'd not forgotten Arya's unexpected arrival in the godswood that morning. Her heart beat faster just thinking about it. "We have been."

He pressed his lips into a thin line.

_Is he saying . . ._ She had to know before her heart broke. After making sure the hall was empty, she blurted out in a strangled whisper, "I still want to . . ."

"So do I but -"

"But what?"

"You're not the only little bird in the Red Keep."


	10. Chapter 10

Sansa knew he was right, but a part of her rebelled against the idea of seeing any less of him. Impulsively, she stood on her tip-toes and kissed him quickly. When he kissed her back, she was satisfied.

She was less than satisfied when she did not see Sandor again for the rest of that night. Feeling shunned, and irritated for being shunned, Sansa had a bath drawn and soaked longer than was her custom. Her lower back and ankles hurt and the warm water soothed them. She thought over the moves and tactics Sandor had shown her in the godswood but, in a fit of crankiness, thought, _Why should I learn all of this if he's just going to leave me alone? _An annoyingly accurate voice responded, _He showed you all this so you would be safer when he's not around to protect you. Because he cares._ Sansa stuck out her lower lip. Being so unkind was not like her and she knew such thoughts did her no credit. Before the frustration could drive her to tears, she finished her bath and went to bed.

The next morning Sansa awoke feeling rested and hopeful. If Sandor thought they should be more careful, then they had been, spending the previous evening apart. Surely he'd be along soon to escort her to the dining hall. Sansa dressed carefully in a gown of light yellow and asked Lucy to leave her hair down. When Sandor didn't show, she told Lucy she'd changed her mind and had her hair pinned up. When Sandor still didn't show, Sansa left for the dining hall by herself under a cloud of grouchiness. She broke her fast with Septa Mordane and then walked the battlements, looking in on the training yard. Sandor was nowhere to be seen and Sansa chided herself for chasing after him, though her desire to find him did not waver.

As the morning stretched into afternoon, Sansa's frustration increased. Was he avoiding her? If so, he was doing a thorough job of it. Shouldn't she have a say in the frequency of their interactions? She felt certain she should. That settled it. She would just go to his room. He'd have to return there eventually. If he wasn't there now, she would wait for him. They would talk and settle on a solution together. After all, he'd said they should be _more_ careful, not that they shouldn't see each other at all. He'd said he wanted to continue . . . whatever it was they'd started.

Before she could lose her nerve, she set off . . . and encountered a veritable parade running through the castle. Servants, men-at-arms, Stark retainers, washerwomen, lords, ladies, a few knights, septas, groomsmen, endless children. She changed her route so often she was sure people would think she was walking in circles. Just when Sansa thought she'd finally come across an empty hallway, she rounded a corner and found Lord Varys walking toward her, silent in silk slippers.

"Lady Sansa," he said, bowing his head.

"Lord Varys, how pleasant to see you," she choked out.

He smiled softly. "May I be of assistance? Unless I'm much mistaken, you're not usually to be found in this part of the castle."

"You're quite right." A lie leapt from her tongue. "I'm looking for my sister. Arya. She is . . . she enjoys exploring." Sansa was going to supply more erroneous information but didn't want to get further entangled.

"The natural curiosity of children is a joy to them and a concern for everyone else, is that not so? I'm sure she'll turn up. Doubtless, _someone_ has seen her," he tittered.

The hair on the back of Sansa's neck stood up. "I'm sure you're right, my lord." At fifteen, Arya wasn't much of a child but she was certain Lord Varys would know her sister's age.

She parted from the eunuch and considered for a long moment returning to her room. She'd gotten this far, though. Besides, if she could just get to Sandor's room, she'd be safe. She didn't want to be noticed in that part of the castle but the true danger was in being seen entering or exiting.

After the better part of an hour, Sansa finally tip-toed down the hall leading to Sandor's room. The dog was in front of the door and scampered toward her, woofing happily, scaring Sansa half to death. She ruffled the dog's ears and shushed him before quickly knocking on the door and ducking inside. Sandor wasn't there and a part of her was relieved. She felt she needed a moment to collect herself. Sansa took a deep breath and turned to face the door, as though Sandor would walk through it at any moment. Before long, she started to pace. Then she sat at the table, folding her hands in her lap and sitting up straight as though she'd come to pay a call on another lady. No unusual weather was to be observed through the window, which Sansa stayed far from, not wanting to be seen. She let her gaze travel around the room but nothing new or particularly interesting was to be seen. Sansa rose and took a passing look at the spare pieces of armor resting on the rack and a long look at the drawing of Sandor's sister. She peered at the face of Alynor Clegane and wondered what had happened to her. There was so much Sansa wanted to ask about her and the rest of Sandor's family but she would not reopen those wounds.

Growing restless, she walked the perimeter of the room, noting the austere furnishings and decor. Sansa paused in front of the mirror and considered her reflection. Truth be told, she looked a little worried. Her cheeks were blotchy and she thought to dab her face with water but the cloth next to the basin was dry and stiff. Her brows drew together at that. For lack of anything else to do, she sat on Sandor's bed. When was he coming back? _Was _he coming back? If not, where did he go? It would look suspicious if she didn't appear for the evening meal . . . Feeling like she'd been waiting forever, Sansa slipped off her shoes and put her feet under the blankets. There was a book on his nightstand, a historical account of some battles she'd never heard of. She thumbed through it but her attention was scattered and the subject matter didn't interest her. After sitting stiffly for awhile, Sansa lay down, pressing her cheek into Sandor's pillow, trying to catch the scent of him.

She couldn't help but remember being carried to this bed by Sandor and kissing him, sucking on his skin until she'd left a mark. Her favor, he'd called it, and she smiled at the recollection. Even the stone bench on her balcony had been made comfortable with him there beneath her, the wind like silk on her skin. Gods, she missed him. _When is he coming back?_ Suddenly a conversation she'd overheard years ago rushed forward in her memory. She'd heard Theon, her father's ward, telling her brother Robb that he'd gone to meet a girl and, when he'd arrived, she was already undressed and lounging across the bed. He seemed to really like it, if it was the truth, and Sansa wondered if Sandor would enjoy such a surprise. She could not be so bold but she imagined slipping out of her dress and waiting under his covers in just her smallclothes. The idea excited her but she didn't want to be the kind of girl that Theon would like and she had no idea at all as to the kind of girl Sandor preferred. He seemed to like _her _well enough but his experience with high-born girls must be limited. Sansa did not want to think about the low-born girls Sandor had known before . . . and would return to after. Their knowledge of . . . certain things must surely be more worldly than her own.

To avoid a complete erosion of confidence, Sansa recited songs to herself, testing her memory. She was just starting to feel drowsy when she heard the dog yip in the hallway, followed by a low rumble that could only be Sandor's voice. She sat up quickly and tried to throw the blankets back but they caught on her feet and she scrambled to stand, or at least get into a sitting position that would not belie the fact that she'd made herself quite at home after intruding on his privacy.

The door opened and Sandor walked in, turning toward the rack of equipment before spinning around, violence etched deep on his face, his sword halfway out of its scabbard, before he froze in recognition, a brief look of desire replaced instantly by confusion and then anger. He stalked over to her and grabbed her arm.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed.

"I - "

"I said we couldn't meet here, it's too dangerous. So I'll ask you again, what are you doing here?" He gave her arm a shake, though not a hard one.

"I - I wanted to see you." It sounded pathetic and Sansa could've cried. This was not the reaction she was hoping for at all. Thank the _gods_ she'd not waited in a state of undress.

"And what if I'd not come back to my room alone? What then, girl?"

Sansa drew back. "Who would you have come back with?"

"Can you name someone who wouldn't think it strange to find Sansa Stark in the Hound's room, in his _bed_, no less? Aye, that tale would make its way through the castle quickly enough. I'd be spinning from a rope before dusk." He dropped her arm and walked away, unstrapping his vambraces as he went.

Sansa was in misery. He was right, of course. How had she been so foolish not to think of that?

"We're lucky it was just your sister yesterday," he muttered.

"I know," Sansa said quietly.

Sandor put his vambraces and light armor on the rack and walked back toward her, his scabbard lightly thumping against his hip. He stopped and stared down at her for a long moment before he began to unbuckle his sword belt, pulling the leather strap tight across his hips before releasing it. He lay the scabbard at the foot of the bed and sat down next to Sansa, his hair, black as a raven's wing, gently swinging forward over his shoulders. He exhaled deeply. "What did you want to see me about?"

Sansa hesitated but, remembering how difficult it had been for her to reach Sandor's room undetected, she knew she had to take her chance. "I missed you."

Sandor's eyes softened and he pulled her close, lowering his lips to hers and kissing her, softly at first but deeper soon thereafter, his tongue seeking entry to her mouth. Sansa laid a hand on his cheek as his tongue encircled hers. After a moment, Sandor pulled away and asked, "What else? You didn't come here just to tell me that."

"I -" Sansa didn't want to sound like she was complaining. "I just thought we should decide together how much time we spend in each other's company."

"How much time?"

"You said last night we should be more careful."

"We should be."

"When I didn't see you, I thought you meant to see less of me."

"I want to see all of you, little bird, but -"

Tap, tap, tap! Someone knocked on the door.

"Fuck," Sandor muttered, his hand instinctively flinching toward his sword. "We have to get rid of them," he said under his breath. "Moan but don't say any words."

_Moan? _Sansa wasn't sure what he meant. Sandor looked at her pointedly and gave a low, deep moan of satisfaction.

Sansa blushed furiously, his intention now clear. She tried to moan but it came out more like a whimper. Sandor fixed her with a look of incredulous disbelief. "Like you _might _be enjoying it."

Embarrassment was burning her alive but she tried again, Sandor covering her voice with an intense, throaty, "_Yes,_" followed by a loud groan. Sansa felt immensely stupid. She'd heard, though not literally, of course, that lovers sometimes voiced their passion but she could not imagine such an impulse. Surely such theatrics were just that.

There was a pause, everyone on both sides of the door listening intently. Sansa could feel the person's presence and Sandor seemed to as well. He leaned over to yank his boots off his feet and growled as he stood and ripped his tunic over his head.

"Oh," Sansa said softly, taking in the broad expanse of his heavily muscled shoulders. Muscles seemed to be piled on top of muscles. Her eye slid down the valley in the middle of his back that lead to a tapered waist, where the muscles curved forward over his hips. Her breath caught in her throat when he turned and she saw the indentations along which her thumbs had traveled that night on her balcony. His abdomen was rippled like rows of river rock, hard and smooth. Dark hair showed on his forearms and across his chest, trailing down in a narrow strip beneath the waist of his breeches. Her fingertips longed to trace their way along the soft hair between the solid plates of his chest and down over his stomach. Her eyes felt their way back up the musculature of Sandor's torso and she saw her mark had faded to a dark yellow near the base of his neck. Sansa became aware her mouth was hanging open. Gods, she wanted to touch him so badly, to mold her palms to his muscles and feel all the strength and power that lay within. Sandor sat next to her again and leaned close, his cheek practically grazing hers. Then he reached past her and pushed against the headboard, rocking his weight in time, causing the headboard to bang against the wall. Sansa frowned in confusion. Was this supposed to scare off the caller? He leaned back and nipped at her earlobe in passing.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"Bugger off!" he yelled, causing Sansa to jump. "_Moan again_," he urged. "_Do it faster._"

Sansa tried to obey but she must not have been doing a very good job because Sandor was growling over her. He stood and began undoing the laces of his breeches. Sansa stared, her heart in her throat. What was he doing? He grabbed the sides of his breeches and gave them a shake, causing them to sink lower on his hips. _Gods be good_ . . . He was spectacular and Sansa wanted to see more of him but she was also afraid. She had no experience, no _ideas_ even, and if he was soon going to be naked, wouldn't it follow . . .

_"More_," he said quietly.

Sansa, lips pressed together in panic, made a keening noise that caused Sandor flick his eyes to her with interest.

"Hound!" More banging. "It's Harry!"

"I said, bugger _off_!"' Sandor turned back to Sansa. "Get under the blankets," he whispered. "Make sure you're covered."

Sansa got in the bed and pulled the covers around her but she watched as Sandor crossed to the basin and wet his hands. He ran his palms over his face, chest, and arms, pausing to scratch some red lines on his shoulders before he turned back to look at Sansa, who threw a blanket over her head and burrowed deep into the covers, leaving a tunnel through which to see the door.

Sandor gave an almighty grunt as he drove his fingers into his hair and shook it until it was disheveled. Sandor turned to make sure she was properly hidden and then stomped over to the door, clutching the front of his breeches as though he'd just thrown them on. He all but flung the door off its hinges. "This had better be good, boy."

"I'm sorry, Hound." Harry goggled toward the bed and Sansa sunk beneath the blankets, praying he could not somehow discern it was she beneath the bedding.

"Out with it and then _go_."

Harry dragged his eyes away from the bed and they widened as they fell on what had to be the deadly look on Sandor's face. Harry's cheeks reddened steadily as he seemed to realize what he'd interrupted.

"You're . . . you're wanted. The queen has returned."


	11. Chapter 11

"_What?_ She's returned already?" Sandor leaned back in surprise.

"Not yet. She'll be back tomorrow. She sent word ahead that you're to report to her when she arrives."

Sandor nodded. "Tell her page I will."

Harry's eyes dropped to the bed again and Sansa tried to sink more deeply into the mattress. Harry began to sputter, "I'm sor-" but Sandor slammed the door in his face and turned back to the bed. He'd let go of his breeches and they'd slipped down a little lower, revealing a thickening of the hair low on his abdomen. He seemed to feel it and grabbed the front of his breeches, yanking them higher before hastily doing up the laces. Sansa emerged from the bedding, her throat constricted. She watched wide-eyed as Sandor sat on the edge of his bed and ran a hand through his hair with an air of absolute exhaustion. After a moment, he turned and looked at her, seeming to debate something.

"What will we do?" she asked.

Something in Sandor's eyes faded. He looked away. "Nothing."

He stood and moved to his table. He removed fresh cloths from the drawer, poured some water into the basin, and began to wash up. Sansa stared at his back, the muscles moving smoothly beneath his skin, and felt numb. After several minutes, Sandor looked at her in the mirror. "You might want to turn around for this part, girl."

"Oh." Sansa shook her head to clear the gloom.

"Or maybe you don't," he added with a tone suggesting he was waiting for her to decide.

Sansa blushed and turned to face the wall. She heard the water slosh and drip as he wet and wrung out his washcloth, the soft sounds of scrubbing following. He rattled around in his wardrobe and Sansa guessed he was getting fresh breeches. She was tempted to steal a look over her shoulder but refrained, afraid of getting caught.

"Alright, girl. I think I've saved enough of your innocence now."

Sansa turned around as he leaned forward and poured water over his head, splashing it everywhere.

"I can help." She didn't think he'd heard. He flinched when her fingers brushed against his as they both reached for the glass bottle holding his shampoo. "I used to help my brother Rickon bathe. Sometimes he'd get in moods where he wouldn't let any of the maids near him."

Sandor turned his head slightly to look at her, his soaked hair falling onto his shoulder. Sansa thought he'd say something but he just turned and held his head over the basin again. Sansa poured a little of the shampoo into her palms and rubbed them together before sinking her fingers into his hair and working up a lather. The scent of his clean skin and the shampoo was wonderfully masculine and Sansa breathed it in. It was nearly the smell she'd come to associate with him, though it was missing a deeper, earthier scent that seemed to be more than skin deep. She rubbed his scalp, letting her nails gently scratch his skin. As she did so, Sandor rested a little more heavily on his forearms and let out a quiet breath. Sansa picked up the pitcher and carefully rinsed his hair clean. She picked up a cloth and she draped it over his head, blotting the water from his hair. He took over then, standing and rubbing his hair more vigorously, drips of water leaving shiny trails on his naked chest. Sansa noticed with a start the bulge in the front of his breeches, though he didn't seem to be paying it any mind.

"I can brush your hair out for you, if you like."

He looked sad. "No, little bird, you've done plenty. My thanks."

Sansa looked down, flustered by his refusal, and returned to sit on the edge of his bed as he ran a comb through his long hair and squeezed the cloth down the length of it to press out the excess water. Then he moved to his wardrobe and pulled out a tunic. As he was pulling his arms into the sleeves and was about to raise it over his head, his chest was even more massive, his waist even narrower than usual. Sansa tried not to stare as she gathered her thoughts. "I'm sorry my coming here upset you."

The briefest look of frustration crossed his face. He joined her on the bed and leaned in for a kiss, the wet ends of his hair leaving two dark spots on Sansa's gown. Sandor gave a kind of groan when he saw them and stood, pulling Sansa up with him. "I'd keep you here if I could but I can't and now that Cersei's coming back, more of her people will be in the castle again."

Sansa nodded.

"I said last night we'd have to be more careful but the queen's return changes all that. At least one of her pages is back and her ladies probably aren't far behind. She's summoned her dog," he spat out, "so she must want something."

"What do you think she wants?"

A dark looked crossed over his face. "I'll find out tomorrow."

They contemplated that for a moment before Sandor stood. "Come. You'll need to get ready for the evening meal."

Sansa stood reluctantly. The past five days had been wonderful and she hated for it to end. She missed her father, Jory, and others of their household but she didn't miss Joffrey a bit and wasn't looking forward to King Robert's booming gregariousness disturbing the peace and quiet the castle had enjoyed of late. More than that, though, she feared the queen. During Sevenmas, she'd been short with Sansa and seemingly angry with the king. Prior, she'd given the order to have Lady killed. Sansa had once admired and hoped to emulate the beautiful, golden Queen Cersei but now she feared being under the queen's influence without her father or even King Robert to gainsay her; feared it even more since Sandor was hers in truth, according to Joffrey, and could not intercede on her behalf.

"When do you think the hunting party will return?" She couldn't hide the nervousness in her voice.

"Not until Robert has killed the boar."

Sansa fell silent though a multitude of emotions tumbled around inside her. Sandor put two fingers under her chin and tilted her face up. "What's the matter, little bird?"

Sansa didn't know where to start. She blurted out, "I don't want them to come back. The king and queen, I mean. And Joffrey. Especially not him. Just my father and his men."

Sandor smirked. "You like having the castle all to yourself, do you?"

_I like having _you_ all to myself and wish we didn't have to hide,_ she thought, though she lacked the boldness to say the words aloud.

He narrowed his eyes. "Or is it something else?"

Sansa held his gaze. "It's something else."

Sandor _hmm_ed at that but said no more.

Sansa dined with Arya, Septa Mordane, and Jeyne, forcing herself to contribute to the conversation which, unfortunately, kept returning to the hunt. Sansa's eyes flicked over Septa Mordane's shoulders to Sandor so often that the septa turned around to see what drew her notice. Sansa looked down when her septa found the object of her attention and chided herself for being so obvious.

"Not to worry, my dear," Septa Mordane said conspiratorially, leaning forward with a look of certainty. "You'll be well shot of him very soon." With half a look over her shoulder, she murmured under her breath, "Great hulking brute."

Sansa's heart clenched and she hoped to the gods Sandor had not overheard her septa's unkind words. The instant it was acceptable to do so, Sansa rose from the table, Sandor mirroring her movement several feet away. Jeyne was blathering on happily about Willard but Sansa was in no humor to pay attention. She felt exhausted and wished her friend would stop being so effusive about her perfectly acceptable suitor. Sansa wrestled with her mood and walked faster as Jeyne took her arm to better confide whatever it was she was sharing. Septa Mordane and Arya followed, the one lecturing, the other's head on a constant swivel. Sandor brought up the rear.

"Move that slop out of the way, girl," Sandor barked to a maid mopping the floor near the exit to the courtyard. _What's gotten into him? _Sansa wondered as the terrified girl hastened to comply, dragging her bucket out of the way of the approaching party, her eyes wide.

They made their way into the courtyard and had only taken a few steps when Sandor bellowed, "Watch what you're bloody doing!" making Sansa jump as Jeyne gasped and clutched at her arm. The man-at-arms to whom the command was directed turned with a look of annoyance which he reined in when he realized he was being addressed by Sandor.

Silence fell over the courtyard. "This girl's to be your queen one day and you're flinging mud and shit all over the place." Sansa could practically feel the heat coming off of Sandor's words though she couldn't assign a reason to his anger. She'd barely noticed the man before Sandor called him out.

The man-at-arms could not do other than apologize, which he did with a bow. "I beg your forgiveness, Lady Stark."

"Of course, my lord. I bid you good evening."

Her words were acknowledged with a tip of his head but he glared resentfully at Sandor behind her. She turned to see what would happen but Sandor flicked his hand to gesture that the group should continue on and he brushed past the man without a second look.

Sandor seemed to calm down as they left everyone at their respective rooms, and then they were finally, _finally_, free to make their way to her room alone. She reached for his arm on the stairs but then stopped herself. That kind of thing should come to an end tomorrow . . . but tomorrow wasn't here yet so Sansa curled her fingers around his bicep and ascended the stairs.

Sandor stood to the side of her door and waited for her to enter her room. The sight of him standing there nearly broke her heart. _So that's it, then?_ She couldn't just close the door on him and their time together.

"Will you tell me what Queen Cersei wants after you see her tomorrow?" she mumbled miserably to the floor.

"If I can," Sandor answered under his breath.

Sansa nodded and reached for the door, looking up at him one last time before going in. He was facing the opposite wall but was looking at her from the corner of his eye. His jaw was clenched, his neck tight, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Good night, Sandor," she whispered.

"Good night, little bird," he rasped in return.

As soon as Sansa shut her door, she heard his heavy footsteps moving quickly for the stairs.

The evening had been a waste. Sansa sat for a time with her sewing in her lap but made not a stitch. When she could take it no longer, she crawled into bed and sobbed her frustration into her pillow. She knew she couldn't have Sandor but she also knew she could no longer accept Joffrey. The thought of it was just too vile. She'd ask her father to break the betrothal and . . . send her back to Winterfell, she guessed. The thought of leaving Sandor broke her heart but, after being in his arms, showing anything but revulsion in Joffrey's would be impossible. _That_ she decided early in the evening. Losing her chance to be queen bothered her, for no queen would work harder for her people, but it seemed necessary. That and losing Sandor's company were the bitterest truths to accept but she could see no way around it. Her father was no more likely to accept Sandor into his service than Queen Cersei was to release him from hers. And Sandor himself had never expressed any interest in leaving King's Landing. Maybe, in a year or so, once things had calmed down, she could invite Myrcella, who she truly liked, to visit Winterfell and Sandor could come with her . . . though that seemed as unlikely as all of her other ideas. She hoped, she fervently hoped, that her father's friendship with King Robert would not be damaged by her decision. _Why did I intervene before Sevenmas?_ She rued her poor decision only until she realized, without it, she would never have come to know Sandor as she did now. She'd succeeded in gaining him a reprieve from being in Joffrey's service and had, in the process, developed feelings for him that went far beyond general concern for his happiness. Sansa considered every option she could think of to remain in Sandor's company while also freeing herself from Joffrey but no solution presented itself. Extricating herself from her betrothal to Joffrey was necessary. That was the only definite.

Frustrated with her lack of ingenuity, Sansa began to linger over memories of the past several days. She very nearly regretted wasting her time with worry and wished, instead, that she'd spent more time kissing and exploring Sandor and letting him kiss and explore her. She shuddered when she thought of her dream, of Sandor as a column of blood, but maybe the pain would be worth it. She felt sure he would be gentle with her. Not that it mattered. Even away from Joffrey, she still had to keep her maidenhead. _Why am I so afraid when I'm with him and so curious when we're apart?_ Sansa huffed and turned over, the coolness of the pillowcase soothing against her heated cheek. Sometime during the repetition of the memories of their time together, Sansa fell asleep.

Then suddenly she was awake. As she turned to see what had awoken her, a hand clapped over her mouth. She drew breath to scream but a voice said, "Shhhh," and Sansa recognized the metal-on-stone rasp. She turned toward Sandor's voice and found herself in his arms.

"What are you doing here?" she asked in a frantic whisper as she searched for his face. Only the sheerest moonlight was staving off complete darkness, reducing everything in the room to blobs of varying shades of black.

"Sansa . . ."

The sound of her name sent a tingle down her spine.

"When I came to your room you said -"

"I'd rather hang for something I did, little bird."

Sansa could smell wine on his breath. _Is he in his cups? What does he want here? _For lack of a better response, she said, "I don't want you to hang."

He gave a soft chuckle and pulled her closer.

Sansa was struggling to make sense of his appearance in her bed chamber in the dead of didn't know what to say or do. She wasn't even sure if she was truly awake.

"Sansa . . ." His voice, usually so rough, had the appealing bristle of a cat's tongue when whispering in the dark. She felt his nose against her cheek before he found her lips and kissed her. Long moments later, she pulled away and began to shove off the blankets.

"Little bird?" he asked warily.

"I . . . a moment, please." Sansa quickly made her way into her dressing room and, needing something to do, brushed her teeth, her mind in a spin the entire time. This was dangerous and she should send him away. _You're not sending him anywhere so why fight it? But . . . what if . . . ? What if you're never alone with him again? Would you regret it? _She rinsed out her mouth. The sense of inevitability was overwhelming. Sansa looked at her shadowy form in the mirror and was glad to be was a good girl and knew better, knew what she was about to do was wrong in the eyes of so many, but what she didn't know, Sandor could teach her and she wanted to learn.

Sansa went back into her bedroom and saw him sitting on her bed, a black mass in front of the gray lumps of the furniture closer to the balcony doors. She approached and crawled across the bed until she was next to him. He felt for her hand and held it. She knelt and kissed him, his relief evident in the rush of his exhale and the speed with which his arms encircled her waist. They kissed hungrily until Sandor murmured, "Lay down."

Sansa did, though breathing was suddenly more difficult. Sandor pulled off his boots and rolled onto his side, moving closer until he was over her, his knees on the outside of her legs. Reasons to stop fluttered around in Sansa's mind but she tried not to be bothered by them and instead gave herself over to the feel of his hands in her hair, his tongue in her mouth, and his body pressing against hers. "Sansa . . .," he repeated between breaths and small, content noises that made her feel like the brightest star in the heavens.

Shyly at first, Sansa's hands roamed over him, taking in the contours of the muscles in his arms and the breadth of his shoulders. Sandor was keeping his weight on his forearms so she placed her palms on his chest and felt the hard muscle beneath his tunic. She turned her wrists and slid her hands, fingertips-first, down to his stomach, took hold of the edge of his tunic, and pulled it up until she could touch the warm, supple muscle of his abdomen. Sandor _mmmm_ed and lowered his body onto hers for a moment. Sansa giggled, giddy and scared and thrilled; Sandor's responding chuckle making her break into a grin. Feeling braver, she laid her hands on his bared waist and slid them up, slowly, over his back, marveling at the feel of him, until she could grip his shoulders. Sandor's breath was in her ear and he gave quiet moan. Then Sansa drew her nails down the length of his back, and he arched toward her, his hips pressing into hers as he muttered a husky, "_Gods_, little bird."

Sansa laughed. Her fingertips just grazed his skin as they traveled back up toward Sandor's neck and he twitched under her touch until she pressed her hands firmly against his skin and slid them back down to his waist before squeezing his sides. Sandor pushed up on his hands and knelt as he pulled his tunic over his head and cast it aside. She could hear his uneven breathing and her smile broadened. She laid her hands on his stomach, her fingertips undulating as they worked their way over the muscles. Sandor all but fell on her then, his mouth taking her own breath from her until she raked her nails over his back again. Then his head lolled onto her shoulder and she barely heard his broken, "Aye."

Something about having his back scratched seemed to invigorate him. He sucked on the side of her neck as she gripped his triceps, one of his hands frantically kneading the side of her hip. He moved lower and kissed the tops of her breasts. "Sansa . . .?"

"Mm?" His every word and touch were bringing her alive even as some kind of agreeable fog lulled her.

"Let me undress you."

A moment passed before Sansa's heart started beating again. She nodded, then realized he couldn't see her. Somehow he understood and moved back, helping her into a sitting position. He reached under the hem of her nightgown and slid his hands along the sides of her legs, bunching up the fabric as he went, until he could grasp her hips. Sansa raised them and Sandor grabbed handfuls of the fabric, Sansa helping him to pull it over her head. Once free of the garment, she leaned back on her hands, naked except for her smallclothes. She was grateful she'd not given up on her campaign of wearing her prettiest underthings, even if Sandor couldn't see them.

As if he could hear her thoughts, blunt fingertips suddenly bumped against her belly and dipped inside the edge of her smallclothes, his thumbs running along the outside, feeling for trim. "Hmm." His fingers moved along until they found the ribbons on the sides that tied to keep her smallclothes secure. Sansa remained still as he pinched the knots. She knew when he realized what they were because he blew out a breath and muttered what sounded like, "Seven hells," before removing his hands from her.

A moment later a heavy hand rested on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze before it slid down to cup her breast, his thumb running over her nipple. He made an appreciative noise before taking her in his arms and guiding her onto her back. The heat of his body, naked from the waist up, nearly took her breath away. She'd never felt anything like it and moaned softly in response. Her breasts against the solid wall of his chest felt wonderful and she pressed up against him. He pressed back and then moved lower, making space for himself between her legs as he trailed kisses over her chest and guided one of her breasts toward his mouth. Sansa sighed happily when he began sucking on the firm bud his thumb had made of her nipple, the pleasure of it warming her. Sandor took his time, seeming to savor her, alternating between gently licking and sucking on her nipple and kneading her flesh with his calloused fingertips. Then he lavished the same attention on her other breast.

Somewhere through the haze of pleasure, Sansa realized she wasn't reciprocating. He was planting kisses between her breasts, pressing the flesh against his face in rhythmic circles before his lips made their way down her belly.

"Tell me what to do," she pleaded quietly.

"What?" He sounded distracted and she could feel rather than see him looking up at her.

"Tell me what to do . . .," Sansa didn't know why she was embarrassed but she was, ". . . to please you." Her voice was barely loud enough to be heard.

After a pause he said, "Get on top of me."

Her nerves shook her but he was already moving off of her and rolling onto his back. Sansa made to lie on top of him but he caught hold of her knees and guided them to his sides, bringing her into a straddle. The impropriety of the pose warred with Sansa's desire to let him teach her. His manhood was directly beneath her and she tried to refrain from resting her weight on it. Sandor gripped her hips and whispered, "Relax, little bird," the pressure of his hands obliging her to rest against him. Her hands were on his chest.

"Tell me what you like."

"What I like? I like your hair. Your lips and teats. Your cunt on my cock." He pressed his hips upward. "Your nails down my back."

That last bit was helpful but not much else and Sansa felt at a loss. She couldn't just scratch his back into ribbons. "What else? What would you like me to do?"

He laughed under his breath and Sansa felt foolish. He took her wrists and brought her hands to her breasts. Then he covered her hands with his and squeezed. "Tip your head back." She did, the high ceiling above nothing but darkness. "Bugger me, I wish I could see you right now." Then he laughed again.

Sansa shook off his hands. "You're mocking me."

"No." She could hear him shaking his head. "This is a mockery of me. To think I could ever have you. Little bird . . . Sansa . . ." He found her wrists and gently pulled her down on top of him. His heavy hands rubbed her back, soothing her. When she relaxed against him, he kissed her gently. "Tell _me_ what to do."

Sansa opened her mouth to answer but couldn't think of a single thing to say. She'd never before considered what might please her; she'd happily accepted whatever Sandor had given her without thought for more. "I . . . dont know . . ."

Sandor _hmm_ed as though something was not quite right about that. He wrapped his arms around her and turned so they were both on their sides. "We'll find out, then."

"I _have_ to remain a maid," she felt obligated to say, a mixture of force and desperation in her voice.

"I know," he answered, frustrated. Then, in a softer tone, he added, "I can please you without taking your maiden's gift."

Sansa began to ask, "How?" but Sandor had moved off the bed and she heard him undoing his belt, followed by the sound of him stepping out of his breeches. The feather mattress dipped under his weight as he returned to her, immediately placing himself between her legs and gathering her in his arms. He took a handful of her hair and gently pulled her head back, sucking on her throat as his hips rocked forward, pressing his stiff manhood against her woman's place, the thin barrier of their smallclothes doing little to subdue the sensation. Sansa's hands gripped his arms. "This . . ."

"This isn't taking your maidenhead," he answered in a thick voice.

Sansa knew he was right but he felt so close she was sure he'd entered her at least a little bit. Something like panic began to beat large feathery wings inside her. Her lady mother had explained that lovemaking consisted of the man being inside the woman but where was the line? At what point would she be ruined? Her mother had promised to give her more details when she came to King's Landing for Sansa's wedding but never had Sansa considered that she'd need to know before then.

Sandor pressed into her again with a groan and then took a long stroke over the length of her. Sansa gasped.

"Yes?"

Sansa had to let the air back into her lungs before she was able to respond. "Yes," she answered in a strangled voice.

Sandor _mmm_ed and she could hear him smile. He increased his speed slightly and Sansa rested her hands on his lower back and felt his muscles flex. Her hands inched lower and made their way under his smallclothes, the skin smooth over the manly heft of his buttocks. "What are you doing, girl?" Sandor groaned and Sansa giggled. Everything felt so good. He lowered his head to kiss her and she ran her hands over his hips and up his back until she could cup his face and slide her tongue into his mouth. He pressed against her harder and then broke away, falling to her side and panting.

"What is it?" Had she done something wrong?

"You're killing me."

Sansa grinned, glad he couldn't see her. "Not intentionally."

"That's what makes you so dangerous."

Sansa laughed. "You're the dangerous one."

"Not when you're armed with these," he said, edging down the bed and tugging at the ribbon on her smallclothes. He pressed a kiss to her lower belly and dragged a fingertip between her legs. Sansa stiffened and then gasped when his finger dipped inside her smallclothes and retraced its path along her flesh.

"You're wet," he said.

"Is that good?"

He sighed and rested his head on her thigh. "If you want to fuck, it is." He took her opposite leg and draped it over his shoulder.

Sansa pressed her lips together. "I wish it was my decision." Having his face so close to her woman's place was distracting her, as was the hand he kept running over her thigh.

"And if it was? What would you decide tonight?"

"It's not my decision."

After a pause he said, "You're too good for him."

Sansa shrugged.

"Bloody waste," he muttered, as if to himself. "And he'll only get worse as king. Long live Robert," he added bitterly.

"I'm going to ask my father to break our betrothal."

She heard him exhale but he remained silent for a long moment.

"So you'll be returning to Winterfell, then. When are you going to talk to your father?"

"I don't know. Soon. I can't marry him." _Or you_, she thought sadly.

For a time they were each lost in their own thoughts. Sansa was resigning herself to a lack of him when Sandor muttered, "Fuck it," turned his head, pulled her smallclothes off, and licked the length of her womanhood with a hot and heavy tongue. Sansa's jaw fell open, both from the surprise and the sensation. Her body fairly shook with the pleasure radiating out from the small, specific area Sandor was lashing with his tongue. "Tell me you don't want it, little bird." He sucked on her flesh and rolled his tongue in a tight circle over her apex. "Tell me" - he licked her again - "to stop."

The loss of contact, even for a moment, devastated her. "No," she gasped, "no, I want it. Please. Don't stop." She watched the dark shape of his head move up and down as his tongue made her feel things with a depth and a pleasure and a hunger she'd never imagined possible. The terrible intimacy of it nearly overwhelmed her and she squeezed her eyes shut. Her womanhood was twitching, jumping, aching, and then, and then she was full, anchored, connected to him twice, once in a way that would launch her, a second in a way that would keep her firmly tethered to him. The solidness of Sandor's fingers answered her desperate clenching with the deepest pleasure she'd ever known while his lapping tongue drove her up and up and up. The undulations rocked her, her head fell back, and her mouth was open, wantonly open, but she didn't care. Never had propriety mattered less. _This_ pleasure and _this_ moment with _this_ man were all. She moaned and Sandor licked her harder. "Gods," she panted. The sensations, nearly unbearable in their perfection, were gathering, centering. Her breasts ached to be touched and Sansa cupped them and squeezed them, pushed them up and together and around, her palms on her aching nipples unable to satisfy the desire for Sandor to suckle them. He seemed to sense her movement and made a muffled groan, the urgency of his mouth increasing. Sansa's flesh was practically vibrating, the waves of pleasure breaking over and over and over again. She tried to hold it off, to slow it down, but the frequency was building and she was going to go over. She grabbed the sheets and, for the smallest moment, there seemed to be a pause - and then a shattering pleasure wracked her as she cried out once, twice, and again. She wanted to scream. No. _Sing_. When the fury died down, she could do no more than gasp and let the residual pangs of pleasure ripple through her as they would.

Sandor caught his own breath and then crawled over her, covering her open mouth with his wet one. He squeezed one of her breasts, hard, and pressed his groin against her throbbing wetness. The hardness of him and the friction of his smallclothes against her raw skin, so sensitive, made her whimper. He did it again. And again. And kept doing it until the waves of pleasure were again swelling and gathering within her. He was breathing heavily, kissing her roughly, his face pressed against hers, his hot breath in her ear. She bucked her hips up against him and in a choked voice he said, "Little bir-" as Sansa clung to him and broke apart in pleasure again.

Sandor fell on his side, "_Please_," he said, taking her hand and guiding it toward his groin.

"Show me how," Sansa breathed, still in shock from the incredible gift Sandor had bestowed upon her.

In an instant, Sandor was out of his smallclothes and wrapping her hand around his warm, slightly sticky yet silky, and _thick _manhood. Sansa barely had time to absorb the feel of him before he guided her hand up and maneuvered her palm over his head, spreading an oily moisture that Sansa wasn't expecting. Then he moved her wet hand up and over and down, soon settling into a rhythm and groaning long and low. His ragged breaths came faster and he squeezed her hand around him and growled. Sansa was lost but fascinated. Suddenly Sandor grunted loudly and Sansa's knuckles felt a sticky liquid on his belly. He pulled her hand over him a couple more times and then collapsed, breathing hard.

Sansa didn't know what to say, speechless in the face of what she'd just experienced. Sandor wiped off his belly with his smallclothes and turned toward her. "Come here."

Sansa inched closer and he gathered her against him, curling his body around hers. He rubbed her back and kissed her hair as Sansa breathed in the wonderful, familiar, musky scent of him. She'd never felt so _content_. Drowsy, too.

"Sandor?"

"Mm?"

"What will happen tomorrow?"

"I'll keep you safe, little bird."

In the cavern of his chest and arms, Sansa couldn't doubt it. His breath was warm on her cheek, his hair hung over her, and her eyes fluttered shut.

A time later, her cheek was still warm, but consistently so. The soft waves of Sandor's breaths were gone. Sansa squinted in the sun. _It's morning._ She looked around, confused. _Did I dream it?_ She sat up, realizing after a moment that she wasn't wearing her nightgown. A smile crept across her face and a bone-deep happiness radiated within her. She pulled on her nightgown in case Lucy came in and groped around for her smallclothes. Her smile widened when she realized she couldn't put them on. Sandor had taken one of the ribbons.


	12. Chapter 12

Sansa was glowing. She could've sung all day long and not tired of it. As it was, she fairly twirled and danced through the morning, beaming at everyone she met. She didn't see Sandor but she hadn't expected to. She wasn't sure she could contain so much happiness. Seeing him might cause her to flare up and combust like a pyromancer's concoction, filling the heavens with twinkly relics of her joy.

She couldn't stop thinking about the previous night - what they'd done, how he'd made her _feel_. It had happened so fast but she'd never felt rushed and she didn't regret it. It had felt right. It had _been_ right. She was surprised she wasn't embarrassed by anything that had happened though she blushed when she thought of one thing: his mouth . . . it had been right _there_! He hadn't seemed to mind, though. In fact, she thought he'd enjoyed doing it. She sighed happily. It had been the most incredible night. And she had - she grinned at the memory - she'd touched him, too, and he'd _liked_ it! She felt again his hand over hers and his manhood, so soft yet so firm, under her palm. She laughed, causing a passing maid to cast a questioning glance at her.

It was a clear and sunny day and Sansa meant to soak in the beauty of the gardens where she could privately relish her memories. She was nearly there when a page approached her.

"Lady Sansa?"

Sansa gave him her most radiant smile. "Good day."

"The queen has sent for you."

Sansa's smile wavered. It was as though a drenching cold rain had started to fall. "Of course." She followed the boy to the solar where the Sevenmas celebration had been held but there was no festive veneer on the atmosphere now. The page knocked, entered, and announced Sansa's arrival. When Sansa entered the room, she was surprised to find Sandor there.

The queen was dressed in a fitted gown of green with a high collar and a scalloped pattern that reminded Sansa of scales. She was sipping a deep red wine. "Thank you. You may go," she said to the page.

"Sansa." Cersei gave her a penetrating look and Sansa tried not to squirm under her scrutiny.

"Your grace." Sansa bowed her head.

"You look flushed. Are you well?"

"Quite well, thank you."

"Good, then you won't mind if we spend a few moments catching up." Queen Cersei's lips stretched into a thin smile.

Sansa steadied herself. "Of course not, your grace."

"Tell me, Sansa," the queen said quietly, "have you been enjoying yourself while the court has been away?" She swirled the wine in her glass.

Sansa strove for a neutral answer. "The castle has been very quiet, your grace."

"That is to be expected when most of its inhabitants are away," the queen responded, as though Sansa was a simpleton. "And how have you been spending your time?"

"I . . ." Sansa could see no harm in telling her the truth. "I prayed in the sept and the godswood. I visited the library. Lord Tyrion was kind enough to recommend a book to me. I spent some time with my friend Jeyne Poole. I did some sewing and took walks . . ."

The queen was looking at her with a mixture of boredom and pity, her glass suspended on its path to her mouth. "What wholesome activities."

Sansa stayed quiet.

"You'd have me believe you spent all your time with Lord Tyrion and this Jeyne Poole."

"Well, no, not Lord Tyrion. I only saw him in the library. I spent most of my time with Jeyne, my sister Arya, and Septa Mordane."

Queen Cersei pressed her lips together and leaned slightly forward. "Sansa, I want to talk to you about a folly that has been perpetuated during my absence."

Sansa's blood froze in her veins. "A folly, your grace?"

"I've been advised that my son's own sworn shield was put in your service for the duration of the king's hunt."

Sansa didn't know what to say and wished she could consult with Sandor, who'd been silent. She felt pinned to the spot by Queen Cersei's emerald gaze and fought to keep her expression relaxed. "Yes, your grace," she said quietly when she could no longer endure the silence. "King Robert told me that morning." _Oh, gods, please don't let her know the truth. _

"The _arrogance_," the queen hissed, looking away.

Sansa nearly fainted but then realized Cersei was talking about the king and not her.

"You failed to mention him in your list of companions."

"I . . . we . . . he was _with_ me but . . ."

"_With _you. So you took full advantage of having Sandor Clegane in your service."

Flustered, Sansa shook her head and tried not to think of the previous night. She could feel a blush stealing over her cheeks and the more she tried to quell it, the hotter it burned. "No, your grace. I . . . I . . . he escorted me to the godswood and around the Red Keep but . . . I didn't go to the market or . . . anywhere far from the castle."

The queen's regal features set into a firm look. "And why not?"

Sansa sensed danger in the question but she wasn't sure from what. "I know . . . the Hound belongs to the prince and . . ."

Cersei nodded as though Sansa had finally come to the point. "Sandor told me you required very little of him. I was glad to hear it. You're not as grasping as some girls in your position would be but this ridiculous charade comes to an end today. You'll enjoy use of your own guard when your father provides one for you. You will _not_ avail yourself of the prince's sworn shield any longer."

"Yes, your grace." Sansa prayed this would be the end of the interview.

"You may go."

"Good day, your grace." Sansa turned and kept her eyes on the floor as she walked through the door Sandor opened for her, and shut behind her without exiting himself.

Sansa went to the gardens as she'd planned but took no pleasure in them. The joy of the morning had cooled and the walls of the Red Keep made her feel like she was at the bottom of a deep well. She didn't see Sandor the rest of the day. In the evening she played at cards with Arya but couldn't concentrate, which aggravated her sister. She began to feel tired early and, when she realized why, was all the more depressed.

Sansa climbed the stairs alone to her room but, despite being tired, didn't want to go to bed. Not if Sandor wasn't there. With a huff, Sansa threw on her cloak, tied her dagger around her waist, and headed for the roof of Maegor's. She wanted space and air around her since her future was narrowing rapidly. The thought of leaving Sandor and upsetting everyone with her broken betrothal made her jaw tremble. She hurried along as the tears gathered in her eyes.

Suddenly a hand reached out of the dark and clutched at her arm. In an instant, she'd whipped her dagger out of its sheath and hacked down on the forearm. A hiss and an oath followed and Sansa turned to flee. She heard quick steps and, before she could begin to run in earnest, a heavy hand landed on her shoulder.

"It's me, girl."

Sansa stopped and turned. Sandor got out a handkerchief and dabbed at the cut on his arm.

"I'm so sorry!" Sansa was horrified that she'd hurt him.

"What for? It's what I trained you to do."

"I know but . . ."

"But what? You did well."

Had Sansa been in a better mood, she would have been pleased by the compliment.

"Where are you going, little bird?"

"Up to the roof. Will you come with me?"

"No, and you shouldn't be wandering around after dark by yourself. Come in here for a minute." He took her elbow and steered her toward the shadows from which he'd emerged. A door she'd never noticed opened into a dimly lit passageway and, after he'd made sure no one was there, he said in a low voice, "You did well with the queen today."

"What did she want with you?" Sansa whispered.

"Just a report, so far," he muttered back.

"Did you tell her about the gold cloaks?"

Sandor looked surprised that she'd ask. "Yes. She dismissed it as nothing."

For a moment they said nothing.

"What happens now?" Sansa asked.

Sandor heaved a sigh. "The same thing that's been happening, girl - nothing. Until you talk to your father, anyway."

"Do you think the queen will be very angry with me?"

"She'll take it as an offense for certain."

"Maybe I shouldn't . . ."

"After a lifetime with Joffrey you might wish you had. Bugger him, though. Kiss me. I'm on duty and have to get back."

Sansa clutched the front of his tunic and pulled herself toward his lips as his arms crushed her against him. His kiss was rough at first but soon became tender and lingering.

"I'll be back this way in an hour. I'll stop at the roof before continuing on my rounds, make sure you're safe."

Sansa shook her head. "I think I'll return to my room." The tiredness she'd fought earlier was returning and, now that she'd seen Sandor, she didn't feel the same need for escape as she'd felt before.

Sandor nodded and moved to open the door. "Good night, little bird." He stooped down and kissed her.

Sansa laid a hand on his cheek. "Good night, Sandor."

"I'll be a ways behind you until you get to the Tower."

"Thank you."

Sansa stepped out into the dark and began to retrace the steps back to her room. Had she not been listening for him, she would not have known Sandor was following her. Before she entered the Tower of the Hand, Sansa turned and stared into the darkness at the far end of the courtyard. She could feel the weight of his gaze from the shadows and wondered if her happiness would always have to be hidden.

When Sansa awoke the next morning, there was an unusual amount of bustle in the hallway outside her chamber. Lucy hurried in. "My lady, your father has returned. He's requested you join him in his solar to break your fast as soon as you are ready."

"Is something wrong?" She was glad her father had returned but Lucy's manner worried her.

The maid wrung her hands. "It's the king. He was wounded on the hunt. The injury sounds most grievous."

Sansa gasped and peppered Lucy with questions as she hastily dressed but Lucy had already shared everything she knew about the situation.

When Sansa entered the stairwell, she found Lord Baelish descending. He looked handsome in a blue velvet tunic with puffed sleeves and his silvery mockingbird-patterned cape set off the silver in his hair. He stopped on the landing.

"Good morning, my lord."

"It may well be, Lady Sansa," he said with a greasy smile and a tip of his head. He took in her gown, his eyes lingering on the bodice, and commented, "It is fortunate that mourning colors become you. I fear you'll be wearing them soon."

Sansa felt as though a stream of cold water suddenly went rushing over her insides. "Is the king's injury so grave?"

The sound of approaching footsteps made them pause. Sandor appeared but hesitated for only a second when he saw who was on the landing. "Lady Sansa, Lord Baelish," he rumbled, continuing on his way.

The master of coin smirked. "You've climbed a lot of stairs for nothing, Clegane. This isn't the kennels."

Sandor stopped and eyed the smaller man with distaste. "Is it a bird's nest?"

Sansa's heart stopped. Why was he being so reckless?

"Oh, very good, Clegane, but no, I usually make my nest elsewhere."

Sansa's heart jolted back into motion.

"Were you coming to visit Lady Sansa . . . or our good Hand of the King?"

"The Hand. Queen's business," Sandor said shortly and continued up the stairs.

Lord Baelish's eyes followed him as he climbed but he continued speaking to Sansa as though they hadn't been interrupted.

"'Grave' is an apt choice of words, my lady. The king has been mortally wounded. Had the boar's tusks struck him just a little lower, King Robert may well have died of heartbreak on the spot."

_A boar?_ The quip made no sense to Sansa but Littlefinger continued. "Your mourning clothes will soon be replaced by Joffrey's cloak. You will make a truly stunning bride, though red, gold, green, and black would not be the colors _I_ would choose for you." His gaze ranged over her face and hair.

"I hope that does not come to pass."

"Oh?" A glint shown in his eyes.

"I only meant the king may yet live. Surely Maester Pycelle –"

"Maester Pycelle is an old man. He could have been _riding_ the boar and still not reached Robert's side in time to be useful."

Sansa didn't know what to say to that.

Lord Baelish continued on in a quiet, silken voice. "Make no mistake, Lady Sansa. It may be Joffrey who becomes king, but it will be you who makes men bend the knee."

Flustered, Sansa could only say, "You are too kind, Lord Baelish."

He favored her with a tight smile. "I do try, Lady Sansa, I do try, especially for those who are kind to me in return."

The sound of someone running up the steps made them both turn. Arya bounded into view, looking confused to find her sister talking with the master of coin.

"Lady Sansa." Petyr Baelish dipped into a low bow, his eyes traveling up her body before meeting hers. "Lady Arya," he added with a nod and a snap of his cape as he swept down the staircase, the picture of urbanity.

Arya shot her sister a look which clearly asked, _What was that?_ Fortunately, her only spoken words were, "Did you hear?"

"Yes. It's terrible."

"If he dies, you'll be queen. Maybe that's why Father wants to see you – to marry you to Joffrey right away."

Sansa's stomach twisted. Everyone but her seemed to have had the same thought. "Lord Baelish suggested the same but, if that's the case, why would he have sent for you, too?"

Arya shrugged. "Because he likes me."

Sansa gave her a look and Arya grinned at her. Sansa couldn't help but laugh, the tension of the morning making her giddy. Undignified as it was, giggling with her sister lessened her dread of what seemed to be coming.

They began to climb the steps together when Sandor thundered past them with a cursory acknowledgement. Sansa stared after his retreating figure in disbelief. "What do you suppose –?"

Arya looked at her like she'd taken leave of her senses. "That's how he always is."

Sansa frowned. _Not truly._

Jory admitted them into the Hand's chambers with an ashen look and a somber 'good morning.'

Upon entering the room, both girls immediately rushed over to their father, who enveloped them in his arms and kissed the tops of their heads.

"Father, are you alright?" Sansa had never seen her father look more worn.

"Yes, thank you, Sansa. I'm glad you're both here. Please sit down." He indicated a table where some fruit, sweet rolls, bacon, and boiled eggs waited.

"What happened to King Robert?" Arya asked when they were seated. "How was he hurt?"

"He was gored by a boar."

Sansa grimaced and Ayra's eyes flew open in surprise.

"It's unlikely Robert will live much longer. It took us two days to get him back to the castle. Maester Pycelle is not hopeful that anything can be done at this point and, in truth, the wound seems to be infected in addition to being . . . extensive."

"Eww," said Arya, setting down her roll.

Sansa gave her a look which she hoped would prompt some compassion. "I'm very sorry, Father." She could not ask him to end the betrothal now, not when his friend was near death. If he brought up her impending marriage, she would express her concerns then. If he didn't, it could wait until a more appropriate time. "Was it a very ferocious boar?"

"They're all ferocious but Robert's killed dozens of them before. He'd been drinking and missed his thrust."

Something in her father's face suggested he was bothered by that but Sansa wasn't sure why. After all, King Robert drank all the time.

Ned Stark continued. "Things are likely to be very unsettled for the next few days and I want you both to stay in the castle. In this tower, preferably." He raised a hand when he saw Arya was about to protest. "You may continue your dancing lessons but otherwise I want you where my men can keep an eye on you. They've been ordered to guard you both more closely." He raised his hand again at Sansa's questioning look. "You've done nothing wrong but I would ask you to stay close until the succession has been finalized."

"Yes, Father," Sansa answered though she wasn't clear on why any of it was necessary. Joffrey would be king. What was there to finalize?

Arya mumbled her agreement as well. Ned then began to eat his own share of the food and the talk turned to more general matters. When he said he had to write a letter to King Robert's brother, Stannis, the girls bid him a good day and left.

Sansa was true to her word and stayed in the Tower of the Hand that day. She penned a note to Joffrey expressing her concern for his father and offering her assistance in any way that might be useful. As difficult as Joffrey could be, she would not have wished the pain and worry he must surely be feeling on anyone. She thought of Myrcella and sweet little Tommen, too, and wished she could do something to help. Perhaps, on the morrow, she would ask them to join her for cakes and games. They'd never visited her in her rooms - she'd always gone to the royal family's suite - but perhaps the novelty would cheer them a little. Her father hadn't said anything about not receiving visitors.

Since the weather was fair, Sansa passed a few hours sewing on her balcony. When she got up to stretch, she peered over the edge and saw the people below going about their business. Her heart stopped when she recognized a tall figure heading toward the stables. Sandor! She wanted to call out to him but propriety would not allow it, even if he could've heard her from atop the Tower. Instead, she stared intently. Harry was with him, carrying something. A blanket? Sansa couldn't make it out. Moments later they were both inside and out of sight. Her heart contracted. It had been less than a day since she'd talked to him but she missed him already. She continued to stare, hoping for another glimpse, despite knowing that she could only see one side of the stables and that it was entirely possible they'd already left through another exit. Still, she had nothing more appealing to do so she stood and watched and was rewarded with another view of Sandor and Harry as they walked out of the stables and disappeared behind another outbuilding, Sansa's heart fluttering for every second that they were in view. Sandor hadn't so much as turned his head in her direction, despite her attempts to will him to do so with her mind. Still, she'd seen him. That was something. Sansa sat down and didn't sew a thing for a while longer.

The day stretched on, the uneasy quiet punctuated by bouts of muffled noise as her father received visitors. Sansa ate in the main dining hall with her family that evening, King Robert's empty chair seeming to take up most of the space in the room. She'd tried to offer Joffrey a sympathetic smile but he'd turned away. Sandor was stone still and didn't so much as move his eyes in her direction. She knew he was right to behave so and it was a relief when the evening ended and she could go to bed.

The next morning Sansa dined with her father, sister, and Septa Mordane in her father's chambers, the septa repeating the questions Sansa and Arya had asked the previous day. As they were finishing their meal, Maester Pycelle was announced. He shuffled into the room and wheezed, "My lord, King Robert is gone. The gods give him rest."

There was a collective moment of disbelief and then everyone seemed to move at once. Septa Mordane urged the girls to their feet as Ned asked the maester to summon the small council.

Time passed both quickly and slowly after that. Sansa accompanied Septa Mordane to the crowded sept so they could offer their prayers for the dead king. The only thing more fervent than the prayers was the gossip. Lord Renly, it was said, had left the city with Loras Tyrell and fifty retainers. Lord Stannis was already making his way to King's Landing, others whispered. Some guessed Ned Stark would be made Protector of the Realm and rule in the prince's stead until he came of age. Guesses and suppositions seemed to stir the very air of the city.

"Why would Joffrey's own uncles dispute his right to the throne?" Sansa whispered to Septa Mordane as they made their way back to the Tower of the Hand.

"Perhaps it's less a dispute and more a desire to guide the young prince until he can take the throne in his own right," the septa suggested in tones that rang false, if kindly meant, to Sansa's ear.

Even from the solitude of Sansa's room, it seemed to her that the entire kingdom was holding its breath. The bells rang for King Robert but the stream of callers to her father's chambers made the Tower feel like a hive buzzing with agitated bees.

After eating her evening meal alone in her room, Sansa could take the uncertainty no longer and crept up the stairs. She found Jory at her father's door.

"What's happening?" she asked him quietly.

He looked around the empty hall and answered in an undertone. "The only definite is that Prince Joffrey wants his coronation to take place within the fortnight. Tomorrow he'll be accepting oaths of fealty from his councilors."

_Where does that leave me?_ Sansa wondered but it was not a question she could put to Jory.

"All will be well, Lady Sansa," Jory assured her with a tired smile.

She smiled back but did not share his confidence. She returned to her chambers and let Lucy help her prepare for bed. They made idle conversation about what Sansa should wear to the coronation as Lucy brushed her hair for much longer than was her custom. _She is very kind_, Sansa thought, soothed by the stroking, _though maybe she is in need of a distraction, too. It has been such a sad, strange day for us all._

A short time later, Sansa sank back against her pillows and the mercy of sleep was quickly granted to her.

Unfortunately, it didn't last long. At some point, Sansa was sure she heard light knocking preceding the sound of her door opening. Groggily, she reached out, expecting to find Sandor next to her on the bed.

"Sansa?" a voice whispered. Light footsteps approached.

Sansa tried to shake off her sluggishness. What was he doing here? The whole court was back. Still, she was glad he'd come.

"_Sansa!_" the voice whispered more emphatically.

"Sandor?" Sansa asked just as she realized it was a female voice calling her. She sat up and was instantly more alert.

"No, it's me, Jeyne."

"_Jeyne?_ What are you going here?" A terrible fear gripped her. "Oh no! Is it the king?" Then she remembered he'd died earlier that day.

"No." Jeyne found Sansa's hand and began to pull her out of bed. "It's the Hound!"


	13. Chapter 13

"The Hound?!"

"He _made _me come to you! Sansa, it was so scary! He grabbed my arm and practically dragged me here, threatening to _gut _me if I made any noise!"

Even sleep-fogged, Sansa knew Jeyne had never been in danger and wished she'd get to the point. "Why? What does he want you to do?"

"He said I'm to start packing clothes for you. He _yelled_ at me, Sansa! He didn't raise his voice but he was so _mean!_"

"Packing? Jeyne, what for? What _exactly_ did he say?" None of this made sense. Why wouldn't Sandor have just come himself?

Jeyne shook her head as though trying to dispel the unpleasant memories, the tracks of tears visible on her cheeks in the moonlight. "He said to wake you, send you to your father, wake Arya, and start packing! He said I was to do it quickly, _right now,_ or else . . .!" she wailed.

"But where am I going?!" Less than five minute ago, she'd been peacefully asleep and now she felt caught in the middle of a storm and utterly unable to detect the direction of the wind.

"I don't know! Go see your father! He'll know what to do!"

"Where is Sandor now?"

Jeyne gaped at Sansa like she'd just asked her to slap the queen. "I don't know! Just go before he comes back!"

"Was he hurt?"

"Your father? No, I -"

"Sandor! The Hound! Was _he_ hurt?" Sansa's chest constricted so hard at the thought that she could scarcely breathe.

Jeyne looked flabbergasted at Sansa's continued delay. "I don't think so. What does it matter? You have to go. Now! He made that very clear. Please! Just go! _Go!_" She pulled on Sansa's arm and all but shoved her toward the door. "I'll wake Arya and then I'll be back to pack a bag for you."

Sansa threw on a robe and dashed for the stairs. She recognized the two guards on duty, and they seemed surprised to see her at that hour, much less in her nightgown and robe.

"Best wait, Lady Sansa. The Hound's in there. Don't want _him_ to see you like that."

"I know he's there. I have to see my father right away."

The guards exchanged a look but opened the door for her.

Sansa ran through the vestibule and into the main room, panic-stricken and short of breath. To her enormous relief, her father was standing calmly next to his desk; Sandor just in front of him, his back to the door. She was still confused but, given Jeyne's hysteria, she'd thought something terrible was happening. Sansa took a few steps forward and the change in angle revealed Sandor's extended arm and drawn sword, the unwavering point of which was aimed directly at her father's throat.

"What -"

"Sansa, go back to your room."

_"No_," Sandor commanded without looking at her. "Stay here."

Sansa's eyes darted back and forth between them. Her father appeared as calm as could be expected with the Hound apparently ready to open his throat. Sandor's tense shoulders and aggressive stance suggested barely-contained rage and Sansa moved forward, wanting to see his face. "Sandor, what are you doing? What is the matter?"

"_Sansa_," her father said, "_move away and go back to your-_"

"He won't hurt me." She drew level with Sandor, who didn't look at her or move. She looked at her father, who had a knife on his belt but made no attempt to reach for it. Turning back to Sandor she said, "What are you doing? Please lower your sword. That's my father."

"Tell him I can be trusted," Sandor said without moving his sword.

"Of _course _you can be trusted. Won't someone please tell me what is happening?"

"Tell him to listen to what I've told him."

"Father, please -"

"Sansa, back _away_!"

Sansa's confusion deepened. Her father seemed to think Sandor would attack her or take her hostage. She couldn't comprehend such a concern but neither could she understand why Sandor was threatening her father, though she knew just as surely that Sandor would not hurt him, either.

Just then Arya burst into the room. Unlike Sansa, she seemed to realize at once what Sandor was doing. She hurled toward him, fists ready, and Sansa heard Sandor's low groan of annoyance. He straightened up and lowered his sword. Sansa saw it was aimed at the artery in her father's thigh, a fact which was not lost on him. She could feel the anger rolling off her sister. Everyone seemed upset but Sansa simply could not break through her shell of confusion.

"What are you _doing_?" Arya all but shrieked, making to grab Sandor's arm. He pulled it away quickly and then shoved her shoulder, pushing her away, though not hard. Before she could lunge at him again, Sansa grabbed for her hand and held it. She was suddenly very afraid. Tears were welling up under her eyes. She knew something was terribly wrong, something that had nothing to do with Sandor drawing his sword on her father.

"What happened?" she asked. She knew the king's death had set some sort of turmoil surging under the polite facade of the court but she hadn't thought anything more had actually _happened_. Surely her father, as Hand, would have it all straightened out soon but, still, something must have changed.

"Tell her," Sandor said. He didn't sound angry any longer. In fact, Sansa thought she detected a trace of relief in his voice.

Ned cast an irritated look at Sandor before turning his eyes to his daughters. "Clegane has brought me some information -"

"_Facts_."

"- some information that he'd have me act on. Immediately."

"Father, than you must! He never lies. Whatever he's told you is the truth!" Cold dread flooded Sansa's heart. If Sandor thought her father should act immediately then it was imperative that he do so. Panic began to rattle her. She squeezed Arya's hand. "Sandor, what happened?"

"Tell her."

"Sansa, Arya, you may have heard that the Lords Stannis and Renly are going to challenge Prince Joffrey's claim to the throne."

They nodded.

"I've advised the queen . . ." He paused, appearing to choose his words carefully. "I've advised her that I'm supporting Lord Stannis's claim."

"_What?_" Sansa spat, thunderstruck. How could her father do anything so blatantly treasonous? Her eyes darted to Sandor to see what he made of this. His eyes did not leave her father's face.

Ned held up a hand. "I have my reasons."

"But -"

"He can explain later," Sandor said briskly.

Ned continued as though he hadn't been interrupted. "Clegane believes the gold cloaks' loyalty is not . . . where it should be." Alarms went off in Sansa's head. "Further, he says the queen has directed him to . . ." He looked disgusted and searched for the words.

"I'm to slaughter your father's men if they fight when he doesn't give the queen what she wants tomorrow. Skip to the last part."

Sansa gasped as Arya muttered, "He'll do it, too."

Ned heaved a breath. "Clegane says the queen will accuse me of treason, have me arrested, and allow me to take the black after removing me as Hand."

"No! Father, you have to believe him!"

"_And?_" Sandor sounded angry again.

Ned looked angry himself. "Clegane claims to have _overheard_," here he flicked a skeptical look at the taller man, "that Lord Baelish has suggested to Prince Joffrey that a demonstration of power would be more desirable than a show of mercy following my arrest. Something to excite the smallfolk."

"The bloody prince all but told me himself. I didn't have to overhear it."

Sansa could believe that easily enough. "Father -"

"Sansa," her father began before lowering his voice in an attempt at private conversation, "Lord Baelish has been helping me -"

"He's double-crossed you then!" Sandor barked. "Lord Baelish breathes in gold and exhales promises. You're a fool if you trust him."

Ned bristled.

"A halfwit could see what's going to happen if you don't heed my advice."

"What's your advice?" Arya wanted to know.

Sansa felt like she couldn't breathe. Even in her father's solar, it seemed as though chaos was about to descend upon them.

Sandor began to explain. "A ship is leaving in a few hours -"

"Is that why Jeyne woke me up and insisted I start packing?"

"_Jeyne_? Did you disturb the whole household, Clegane?" Ned said hotly.

Sandor narrowed his eyes at him. "A ship is leaving in a few hours and, if you're wise, you'll be on it. Or send your daughters if you don't care to save yourself."

"Father, we must go! I can be ready to leave in moments. I'll leave my dresses . . ."

"Can I bring Syrio?"

_Who?_ Sansa wanted nothing but to be gone. She knew Sandor wouldn't have come here on a whim. He did nothing on a whim, it seemed. Except kiss her on Sevenmas. But thank the gods he had. That kiss might have led to the rescue of her family, for rescue it certainly seemed to be.

"I've thanked Clegane for his counsel but I believe the queen can be made to see reason."

"Reason?! She killed Lady!"

"I -"

"She made you do it!"

"She's just as bad as Joffrey," Arya threw in.

"Sansa, Clegane is the most obedient retainer in Lannister service," Ned said with repugnance, giving Sandor a look meant to suppress argument.

_He's in love with _me_, though!_ Sansa nearly shouted, shocked that she'd stopped the words in time and equally shocked by the realization. How to relate, much less convince, her father of everything she'd come to know about Sandor over the past weeks? There just wasn't enough time! She could not refute the irrelevance of her father's argument strongly enough, not without revealing herself and Sandor in the process, and the necessity to make her father understand was breathtaking. "_Please_." 'Please' was all she could say as the tears spilled down her cheeks. "Please believe him."

"If I leave King's Landing, the truth leaves with me. It would be very convenient for Cersei if she could have Clegane here convince me to go. Then she could focus on Renly and Stannis without any opposition from within the court."

"I wasn't sent by the queen," Sandor said in a low, dangerous voice.

"Then why come?" Ned demanded. "Why should I trust you?"

It was Sandor's turn to bristle but Sansa had heard enough. "Please, Father! Believe him! I'm certain the queen didn't send him but, if she did, what does it matter? I don't want you to be sent to the Wall and Joffrey is cruel and unpredictable! You said yourself that he only heeds the queen but if _he's_ king -"

"I think we should go," Arya cut in, to Sansa's profound relief.

Sansa nodded vigorously. "Yes! Father, we should go. _Please_. If it's all a mistake, you could come back, we could all come back. Tell the queen you feared for our safety. Tell her we begged you to leave. Tell her _anything_. _Please_."

Ned looked at his daughters. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a breath. "Alright. We'll go. Your mother would never forgive me if we didn't."

Sandor moved aside and sheathed his sword. Sansa rushed forward and hugged her father. "Thank you."

Over her head, Ned said, "It seems I'll take your counsel after all, Clegane. I'll see to it we reach the ship before it sails."

"I know you will," Sandor said, resting his hands on his swordbelt. "Because I'm coming with you."

*** Author's Note

This is where I'd originally intended Sandor and Sansa to sail off into the sunset together but I think we'll continue on.


	14. Chapter 14

"You might have mentioned that before," Ned said with an edge in his voice.

"You think I'd lose my head to save yours?"

The two men glared at each other. Sandor spoke first. "Be at the stables in half an hour. Just you, her," he nodded toward Arya, "and the girl, since she knows. Lady Sansa, you'll come with me." He took Sansa's elbow and steered her in front of him.

"No, she won't -," Ned protested.

"Father, it's fine, truly," Sansa answered over her shoulder.

"Half an hour," barked Sandor. "And don't get yourselves caught on the way."

After leaving her father's chambers, Sandor hustled Sansa to her room, tension seeming to flow through the hand he kept on her arm straight to her trembling heart. Jeyne gasped when they burst into the room. Sandor leaned down and pinched Jeyne's chin, forcing her to meet his eye. "You've got fifteen minutes, girl. Go to your room and pack some clothes for yourself. Then go to her sister's room." He nodded at Sansa.

"I don't want to go -"

"I don't want to kill you but I will if you don't fucking move. _Now_." Sandor released her chin and she ran toward the door. When she was almost there, he said, "Girl."

Jeyne stopped and turned, apprehensive.

"I don't need to tell you to keep your mouth shut, do I?"

Jeyne shook her head no.

Sandor jerked his chin toward the door and Jeyne disappeared through it. Sansa wondered if she would return but decided Jeyne was too afraid of Sandor to disobey. He turned to look at Sansa and she hurried over to the bag Jeyne had packed for her. Rifling through it, she found dresses, shoes, stockings, and some undergarments. Sansa dashed around, adding the box with the dagger Sandor had given her for Sevenmas, a silk purse with what coins she had, and her comb, hand mirror, and some toiletries. When Sandor stepped out onto the balcony, she grabbed a handful of her fancier undergarments and nightgowns and shoved them into the bottom of her bag. She suddenly remembered she wasn't dressed to travel and quickly stripped down. It was too dark to see detail so she selected a gown by feel and dressed as fast as she could. She was throwing a dark cloak over her head when Sandor returned.

"It's quiet, little bird. Are you ready?" he asked.

"I think so, though I'm sure I've forgotten something," she answered, looking around the room.

"We'll be stopping in Gulltown. If you've forgotten something important, we can replace it then. Right now, we need to get down to the stables."

Sansa nodded and took a deep breath. Sandor stepped closer and pulled her against him, kissing her deeply. His breath was warm against her ear as he whispered, "I'll keep you safe, little bird. If anyone tries to stop us, I'll kill them."

Sansa and Sandor left the stables first, followed by Ned and Arya, and then by Jeyne and Harry, each pair departing the city by a different gate. Sansa drank in the cool night air as Stranger's hooves beat out a soft cadence on the road they were taking to the harbor. She was tucked close to Sandor, surrounded by his arms and cloak, hidden within the heart of him.

"We're almost there," he murmured in her ear in a tight voice.

She nodded, aware of the danger they were in yet feeling removed from it, secure in Sandor's care. They'd left by the farthest gate and reached the harbor just as the others did. Sandor swung her down from the saddle, brushing a kiss across her lips while Stranger hid them from view. He pulled away with a soft noise just as Sansa began to kiss him back. He put Stranger's reins in her hand as the others approached and then strode over to the dock to speak with the captain. The chink of coins exchanging hands and a few words carried over to where Sansa waited with her father, sister, Jeyne, and Harry.

Within moments, Sandor returned. "Bring the horses first," he said to Ned, who responded with a look that suggested his compliance was soon to be in short supply. Still, he led his horse and one of the supply horses onto the ship.

"Stay with the baggage," Sandor directed his squire, who nodded and kept looking over both shoulders and all along the harbor, twitching whenever a noise was to be heard.

"Stop it," Arya hissed at him. "No one followed us."

Harry stood still though his eyes continued to dart all around.

Sandor came forward and took the reins from Sansa's hands. "Come with me." He led Stranger toward the gangway with Sansa a half step behind him. "You, too," he added to Arya and Jeyne when he passed them. They boarded the ship. "Go stand over there and stay out of sight of the shore." Then, in a quieter voice, he coaxed Stranger farther along.

The middle of the deck was taken up by a mountain of crates, boxes, and other cargo. The girls watched from behind it as Ned brought Harry's horse and the remaining supply horse on board. Their baggage was put in a pile on the deck and the horses were led toward the hold. Harry came last, lugging two small chests that he set down with a thud under Sandor's watchful eye. "Where should I put these?"

"Two cabins, captain?" Sandor asked, turning toward a beefy-looking man with a clean-shaven face and heavy jaw waiting near the railing.

Sansa had avoided looking at the men on the ship, though the entire crew seemed vastly curious about their new passengers.

"That's right, ser."

Sandor muttered, "I'm not a _ser_," as the captain moved forward.

"Perhaps one cabin for the ladies and the other for you, Lord Stark, and the boy?"

Sansa's heart skipped a beat. _He knows who we are._

"No, thank you, captain. I'll stay with my daughters and . . . my ward," her father said, walking to join the group.

"My apologies, Lord Stark, but there are only three bunks per cabin."

"That's fine. I'll sleep on the floor."

The captain nodded but with a look that hinted Lord Stark would rapidly regret his decision.

Her father didn't seem to notice. "If you could show us the way, Captain . . . ?"

The captain looked at her father as though he were unsure if he were making a jape. "Dunellen. This way."

The captain walked with a shifting gait where he seemed to throw one shoulder out in front of him and then the other, his muscular arms like handles on the sides of his barrel-like torso. Another sailor scurried in front of him with a lantern. Their cabin was one level below deck and had a porthole, which Arya immediately pressed her nose against, fogging it and leaving a mark. The greasy light of the lantern did little to illuminate the room but it was clear there was little comfort and no charm to be had in their quarters. Sansa realized this ship was not truly meant for passengers and that they'd been given rooms typically used by the sailors. There were three bunks, as promised – two on the exterior wall, one above the other, and a third under the sloping eve of the interior wall. Jeyne sat on that one, hung her head, and cried quietly.

"Ser and the boy will be in the next cabin," Captain Dunellen explained, shooting glances at Jeyne and speaking more loudly than was necessary to cover the sound of her sniffling. "There's a connecting door but it locks from this side."

Ned nodded, satisfied. "Thank you, Captain. I'll meet with you shortly to discuss payment."

He drew his brows together. "Ser's already paid, my lord."

Even in the relative gloom, Sansa could see her father pull in the corner of his mouth. "Of course. Thank you."

Captain Dunellen nodded briskly and stepped out. He could be heard directing Harry to the room next door.

"I want the top bunk!" exclaimed Arya, swinging up to it with the only kind of grace she ever displayed.

"Jeyne," Ned said quietly, sitting next to her on the bunk. "I wrote several notes before I left. One was to your father explaining that I was taking you north with us. I assured him you'd be safe with me. I know you didn't have a chance to see him," his voice became harsh, "since Clegane ac_cos_ted you," he paused briefly, "but I don't want you to worry. You'll be safe at Winterfell and your father won't be far behind. I instructed Jory to wake everyone and have them leave King's Landing as soon as they could be ready."

Jeyne nodded and blubbered out her thanks. Ned looked at her, worried, but patted her shoulder and rose. "I need to talk to Clegane."

"I want to come, too!" Arya said, jumping down from the bunk.

"It's late. You should get to bed. Or unpack your things if you can't sleep."

"I'd like to come, too." Sansa knew she should stay and comfort her friend but she thought Jeyne might want a few moments alone and, besides, she wanted to know what was going on.

Ned frowned but said, "You can come up to the main deck but stay -"

"- out of sight of the shore. We know. The Hound already told us," Arya said before ducking out the door.

Ned's look darkened. He followed Arya into the passageway and Sansa followed him, shutting the door behind her.

"Father . . ."

He looked at her and her heart went out to him. She'd never seen him look so worried and tired. Sansa wanted to tell him he could trust Sandor; that he had honor. Maybe not the kind her father was used to rewarding among his men, but her father didn't give the kinds of orders the Lannisters did. Surely he knew that. Surely he could see that Sandor was brave and did not flinch from his duties, no matter how abhorrent they could be. Sansa realized with a start that her father did not see things that way. At best, he saw Sandor as a deserter and a traitor to his word, but why should Sandor be condemned if he no longer chose to serve the very king her father hoped to prevent from taking the throne? Sansa wanted to talk about all this with him but she knew now was not the time and merely said, "I believe he's sincere in his efforts to help us."

Ned's face softened. "Sansa, it is kind and generous of you to think so." He looked more sad than pleased but didn't say more and she followed him to the main deck.

Captain Dunellen was nowhere to be seen but several sailors were around, adjusting rigging and otherwise preparing to sail. Arya was already talking to two of them, asking questions and making them laugh. Sandor wasn't there.

"Stay here. He might have gone to check on the horses," Ned said as he made his way along the mountain of crates.

Sansa stood and looked at the moonlight filling the endless cups of water on the bay's surface. When a hand came to rest on her shoulder, she thought her father had returned but then she heard his voice from several feet away and jumped.

"Clegane!"

Sansa spun to find Sandor behind her. He let go of her shoulder.

Her father's eyes narrowed but he seemed appeased that the Hound had unhanded his daughter. "The captain told me you paid for our passage. That was unnecessary. I'll repay you when we reach Winterfell, plus extra for your trouble and your expenses to wherever you're going."

Sandor made a dismissive gesture. "It wasn't much."

In a harsh whisper, Ned said, "You don't think I'd believe this captain and crew would ferry us to safety for just a few coins. Not when they know the Lannisters will be wroth when they learn we've gone. The price for their silence must have far exceeded the cost of the voyage."

"If you want to offer them more gold, go ahead."

"So you'd have me in your debt," Ned said in dark tones. It pinched at Sansa's heart to see how little her father wanted to accept anything from Sandor.

"I'll accept your thanks and consider us even. If you want to repay me beyond that, you'll think of a way. I don't need gold."

"Perhaps not, but you do need protection from the Lannisters."

"Protection from the Lannisters?" Sandor scoffed. "It wasn't my head Joffrey was planning to lop off."

"He might change his mind once he knows you've deserted."

Sandor's face hardened.

"You haven't said why. You've served their family for years and now your prince would be king. You've got gold, a good horse . . . and considerable leeway," Ned added with a trace of contempt.

Sandor spat over the railing and glowered. "Even a dog gets tired of being kicked," he said.

Ned looked skeptical but didn't challenge his answer. "I suppose you want a place at Winterfell."

Sansa was on tenterhooks. Things had been happening so fast since Jeyne woke her that she'd barely had time to breathe but, now, any outcome other than Sandor taking up a position at Winterfell was unthinkable.

After a long pause, Sandor said, "Lady Sansa tells me you treat your men fairly."

"I pray to the old gods that she has the right of it."

"She says they trust you."

"There's not a man in my service I don't trust in return," Ned answered with a slight edge in his voice.

Sandor said nothing but Sansa frowned at the insinuation behind her father's words. "Father, when will we sail?" she asked to ease the conversation past the uncomfortable place where it had stopped.

"When the tide turns."

"Can't we at least go out into the bay? The gold cloaks couldn't reach us there . . ." It was one thing to be caught on the road, excuses might be made then, but getting caught on a ship with one's belongings would be incriminating beyond denial. The tension between her father and Sandor was making Sansa nervous. She looked around. Arya was farther along the deck, a sailor pointing out something among the masts and sails to her. A few men were sitting at the rear of the ship drinking and singing bawdy songs. The complacency she saw was maddening. She was eager to be gone, to be safe from the young, cruel king.

"Sansa, until the tide turns, we'll just be pushed back into the bay. _With_ the tide, we'll be pulled out into the Narrow Sea. No captain sails against the tide unless he has to."

Sansa couldn't argue against the logic in that. "How long will it take us to get to Gulltown?"

Her father looked at her with surprise and Sansa immediately wished the words unspoken.

"Gulltown? Is there anything else you'd care to mention, Clegane?" her father asked, looking over her shoulder.

"Gulltown is the only stop. Then we'll sail to White Harbor," Sandor answered indifferently before adding, "And the captain thinks he's in your debt."

Her father frowned. "And why would he think that?"

"Lord Baelish is interested in collecting a debt from Dunellen. The captain can't pay it. Luckily for him, you noticed his arrival today and sent me to suggest he not linger in King's Landing. In exchange for that information, he agreed to take you and your family to White Harbor."

Ned glared at Sandor. "How dare you use my name –"

"Your name's not worth as much as you think it is, Lord Stark, Warden of the bloody North, Hand of the dead King," Sandor snapped. "The captain only agreed to wait until the next tide. That was this afternoon. It was my gold that kept him here."

"Your gold. Blast your gold and blast your lies! I'll not be tricked into paying you more –"

"Tricked?" Sandor turned his head and regarded Ned with one eye, danger radiating off him. "Every word I've told you is the truth. But be a damned fool if you choose. Take your chances with Joffrey and see if you like _his_ truth better."

Their fighting, even if hissed in undertones, was scaring Sansa. She could not allow her father to go back to the city and she was afraid he'd try if Sandor kept goading him.

"Truth?" Her father's tone was colder than solid ice. "The _truth_ is that you didn't come to me until nightfall, when our departure couldn't have looked more suspicious or been more dangerous. The tide was already in so spare me this tale about the value of your gold, Clegane."

"The tide was already in because you refused to admit me when I came to you this morning."

Goosebumps prickled Sansa's skin. Sandor had passed her on the stairs when she was talking with Lord Baelish that morning and descended them angrily moments later. From her balcony, she'd seen him and Harry carrying something into the stables. Sansa wondered if Sandor would have left without her and shivered. Their flight from the city felt like an even narrower escape than it had before, and it still wasn't a sure thing.

Sandor was still speaking. "- thousands of poxy peasants in the streets, every gate open. No one would have questioned your coming to the harbor then. Your men could've been leaving the city all day. But the great Lord Eddard Stark wouldn't see the king's dog. Too bloody busy deciding who's worthy of sitting on a throne that's not his to give."

"I wouldn't expect you to set much store by the notion of keeping your word, but King Robert -"

"- didn't know what you found out, did he? Half the bloody Red Keep suspected but not Robert. He made you Protector of the Realm and you kept your word to him by trying to put his brother on the throne. And you call me a liar? Piss on that. I've told you what you wanted to know. My gold kept this ship here and that's the truth." He gripped the railing and glared out at the water.

Ned turned away and rattled off a string of oaths unlike anything Sansa had ever heard him say. She looked at their backs and hoped they wouldn't resume arguing. They were both right and they were both wrong and, even if she'd understood everything they were talking about, she wouldn't have wanted to choose a side.

No one said anything further for a few minutes. Sansa's stomach was in knots and both Sandor and her father were steaming.

"Is Gulltown far?" Sansa asked Sandor in a small voice when she could no longer take the silence, upset that her blunder had started the row between him and her father in the first place.

"With good wind we'll be there in a day or two. Then we'll sail around the Fingers, past the Three Sisters, and into White Harbor." His eyes met hers but there was none of the warmth she'd grown accustomed to seeing there.

Sansa nodded. _Only one port between us and the north, where we'll be entirely safe and free to ride to Winterfell without fear of pursuit. _It seemed so easy. Except they weren't anywhere near Gulltown or White Harbor. They were still in King's Landing. On a boat still docked in the harbor where the very moonlight seemed to fill their sails and weigh them down.

Sansa walked down the deck to the end of the mound of cargo. She peeked around the corner and squinted through the darkness to the harbor. Torches on other ships and those carried by people moving along the dock bobbled up and down. Sansa looked harder. Did the gently rocking ship make it look like they were moving, or were they bobbing because they were being carried by men on horseback?


	15. Chapter 15

Sansa stared at the harbor but the torch light did not form any regular pattern. The mounted men she saw were solitary and no one seemed to be paying their ship any particular attention. She peered several moments longer to be sure. As she breathed a sigh of relief, she heard her father say, "Clegane."

Sansa hurried back to where she'd left him and Sandor. Her heart beat wildly in anticipation of what her father would say. Sandor turned and looked at him, expressionless.

"I had forgotten you'd come to see me this morning." Each word sounded like it was being prompted by a knife to the back. Sansa's eyes teared up. She knew this must be hard for her father but he was doing the right thing, as he always did. It made her proud. He continued, "That's not to say I agree with you on anything else but you were right in that I did decline to see you this morning."

Sandor didn't say anything, apparently waiting for Ned to go on.

"I will repay you the gold you spent. _That_, I insist on. I still don't believe our hasty removal was necessary but, if Sansa and Arya feel safer for having left, then you have my thanks."

Sandor nodded. Ned looked a little miffed that Sandor had no further response but didn't comment. The three of them stood and looked out into the bay in silence, the sound of Arya's laughter drifting down to them.

After what seemed like an eternity, Captain Dunellen appeared and the sailors rose and buzzed over the deck like so many insects. When they at last lifted the anchor, Sansa felt like an equivalent weight had been lifted from her shoulders and heart. Standing at the rail between her father and Sandor, she watched the mouth of the bay approach with a relief so intense it made her knees weak. The strain of the night left her exhausted and she raised a hand to cover her mouth as she yawned.

"You should rest," Sandor suggested quietly.

"We should all rest," her father answered, pushing away from the rail. "Arya!" he called.

"I'll tell the captain to wake us if anything happens," Sandor said, striding off, only his cloak brushing against Sansa as he left.

Sansa went below deck with her father and sister. Jeyne was curled into a tight ball, fast asleep. The girls changed while their father waited in the passageway. They tried to make themselves comfortable in their quarters, Ned in a haphazard nest of blankets on the wooden floor. The gentle rocking of the ship, the early hour, and the strain of the day all dragged Sansa down into a deep sleep.

The next morning, Sansa awoke quite late. Her father and Arya were already gone but Jeyne was sitting on her bunk, looking uneasy.

"Jeyne, are you unwell?"

She nodded miserably. "The rocking is making me sick."

Sansa pitied her. Jeyne hadn't wanted to come and now she was ill. "Let's dress and go up on the deck. The fresh air is sure to be good for you. Have you eaten?"

"No."

"I'll see if I can get you a nice cup of tea."

They dressed and Sansa took Jeyne's arm and guided her down the passageway to the stairs that led to the main deck. "Sit here," she suggested, helping Jeyne down onto a bench near the middle of the ship. "The sun feels nice, doesn't it?"

Jeyne smiled weakly. Sandor appeared at Sansa's side, Ned approaching from the rear of the ship.

"What's wrong, Jeyne?" her father inquired kindly. "Are you not feeling well?"

"No, my lord, I'm afraid not."

"I thought some tea might help her," Sansa said, unsure of where to get any. Where did the sailors prepare their food?

"Harry!" Sandor called. His squire rushed over. "Do anything Lady Sansa asks of you."

"That's very kind, thank you. Harry, would you please see if you can find some tea for Jeyne? Maybe some bread, too?"

"Yes, m'lady," he said and hurried off.

"Keep your head up, girl, and look at the horizon," Sandor advised Jeyne, who looked sicker for being addressed by him.

"It'll pass, Jeyne," Ned said.

Jeyne nodded but trembled a bit.

Before long, Harry returned with a tray of food and a smiling member of the crew who introduced himself as Brien, the first mate. "Cap'n Dunellen could'na be spared from his duties but he sends his regrets that one o' the ladies is sick." He assessed Jeyne's pallor with an _mm hmm_ and announced, "You jus' need your sea-legs, lass. Drink this. Ginger tea. Takes the edge off."

Jeyne accepted the cup he offered with shaky hands and took a tiny sip of the warm liquid.

"There," Brien said with immense satisfaction. "Better already." He nodded as though Jeyne had just been cured before their very eyes.

"Thank you," Sansa said to him.

"My pleasure, miss. You need aught else, you jus' send the boy." Brien left them with a spring in his step and the happy air of a man who'd just performed a great service for his fellow man with minimal cost in time or effort to himself.

"I'll sit with her," Sansa said to the others, noticing Harry was eyeing Jeyne with the apprehension one usually reserves for large and unpredictable wild animals.

Her father and Harry disappeared behind the mound of crates. Sandor moved farther along the deck behind Jeyne and was approached by one of the sailors. Sandor talked to him but kept an eye on Sansa and Jeyne. Sansa turned her attention to her friend and coaxed some toast into her.

After a half hour or so, Jeyne had managed about half the tea and a few more bites of bread. Sansa had broken her fast on fruit and cheese since Jeyne had firmly refused it. Sansa wasn't sure she liked the flavor of the ginger tea but drank it anyway in an effort toward prevention.

"Would you like to walk a bit?" Sansa asked when Jeyne looked a little better.

"I don't think so but you can go. Thank you for sitting with me."

"I'll check back on you soon."

When Jeyne nodded, Sansa rose and walked to where Sandor was leaning against the railing alone. Without a word, he fell in step with her and they slowly made their way along the deck, the boat gently rocking beneath their feet. For a while, neither of them spoke though Sansa enjoyed being close to him again and relished his scent mixed with the sea air. "I'm glad we left King's Landing," she eventually remarked.

"Aye. Things there will have gone to shit by now," he said with a smirk.

"Septa Mordane must be so worried." Sansa could not help but think she should have insisted she come, too, and felt guilty that the thought was only now occurring to her.

Sandor _hmm_ed but didn't say anything further. When they completed their circuit, they found Jeyne with her head resting on the railing, looking small and pitiful. "Sansa, I think I'd like to lie down. Would you help me to our cabin, please?"

"Of course," Sansa answered, moving forward to help Jeyne to her feet.

"Take this with you," Sandor told her, picking up a bucket that was nearby.

Sansa hoped it wouldn't be needed but accepted it and she and Jeyne shuffled off toward the stairs together.

When Sansa returned to the main deck, she found her father at the front of the ship sitting on a box, brow furrowed, hands clasped under his chin, his eyes fixed on the distance. Sansa sat next to him and he gave her a tired smile.

"You don't seem happy, Father."

"I made a bad decision, Sansa. I abandoned my men and ran. They'll be lucky to get out of the city without a fight."

"I'm sure none of them will think less of you for saving yourself and your family."

"They have families, too, and care about their lives just as much as I care about mine. The north remembers, Sansa. I put myself before my men and they won't soon forget it."

Sansa didn't know what to say.

"And to have allowed Sandor Clegane to come with us . . ." Ned shook his head in self-recrimination.

"If not for him, we'd still be in King's Landing."

"And safe, in all likelihood," her father said bitterly.

"You don't believe him? Killing you to put on a mummer's show sounds exactly like something Joffrey would do."

Her father looked at her from the corner of his grey eyes. "Then why did you want to stay betrothed to him?"

Sansa frowned and looked down at the deck. "I was wrong. I was going to ask you to break the match when you came back from the hunt but then King Robert was hurt and you were so busy. . ."

"You should have told me. I would have sent you back to Winterfell right away with a full complement of guards."

"But then you would have stayed. I think it's better this way."

"I'm not sure I'd call being in the company of Sandor Clegane 'better.'"

Sansa paused. "He's not a bad man, Father." She hurriedly went on when she saw Ned was about to protest. "I know his reputation and, indeed, he's earned it in many ways, but . . . he's not all bad."

"Sansa –" Her father seemed to weigh his words. "I know he might seem like a hero right now, orchestrating our departure, but -"

"It has nothing to do with that!"

"Sansa, you have no idea of the kind of man he is."

Sansa knew the time to enlighten her father had come. She hoped he'd be receptive and not too angry. If nothing else, maybe it would stop the two of them from fighting for the duration of their trip. Bracing herself, she said, "I know him better than you think I do."

Her father flew to his feet, his face contorted in rage. "What the seven hells does that mean? How could you possibly know him?" Then a worse idea seemed to occur to him. "Has he bothered you in any way? I swear it, I'll-"

"No!" A series of images from the past weeks flickered through Sansa's mind. She was pretty sure her father would call waking up to find the Hound in your chambers, gazing at you in your sleep, 'bothered.' "No, Father, please believe me. He has been . . . a friend. Nothing more." It pained her to lie but if this was her father's reaction to their merely talking . . .

"A friend," her father spat. "I'm sure friendship isn't what he had on his mind."

Sansa gave him a reproving look. "That's unkind. To both of us."

Ned scowled at her as he sat back down. "I know it's not in your nature to behave like . . . to lead . . ." Sansa could tell it was with a tremendous effort that her father mastered himself when he said in a relatively level voice, "How did you come to know him?"

"I . . . I spent some time in his company during Sevenmas and while you were gone on the hunt."

Her father opened his mouth but then clamped it shut. After a moment he asked, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't think you'd approve."

Ned looked like he was fighting back a torrent of words he limited his response to, "I don't." When Sansa didn't reply, he added, "And?"

"I asked to accompany him on his rounds one night when he found me walking to the godswood by myself."

"The godswood at night, Sansa?" He exhaled in an exhausted kind of way. "I would hope you'd be more careful than that."

"Sandor said-"

"_Sandor_?"

"I can't call him 'Hound' and he's not a _ser_," she explained quickly to let him know it was beside the point.

Her father's expression told her he was choosing not to argue the point, little though he liked it.

"He said I shouldn't walk alone at night and offered to take me back to my rooms."

Ned muttered something about 'sense' as Sansa added, "I didn't want to go back to my rooms. I'd only just left them. I asked if I could go on his rounds with him and he let me."

"Of course he did," her father grumbled. "Wandering around alone in the dark with the Hound . . ." He shook his head.

"Father." She wanted to be able to prove her point.

"What happened?"

"We walked and talked. I told him about life at Winterfell and he told me about serving the Lannisters. Truly, Father, he's perfectly reasonable. He just doesn't like the falseness of the court. It makes him angry."

Ned looked at her evenly, betraying neither belief nor disbelief.

Sansa thought she'd say one last thing in Sandor's favor. "He . . . he also saved me from this knight . . ."

"What knight?" Her father looked angry again.

"His name is William Dench."

Her father shook his head in lack of recognition.

"I'm not sure who he served. Sandor would know. Anyway, he's gone now."

"What did he do, Sansa, and why didn't you tell me at once?"

"Nothing, truly, though he made me uncomfortable. He said I was pretty and asked my name. I told him and he seemed surprised-"

"I'll bet."

"But then Sandor came and . . . got rid of him."

"He killed this man in front of you?" Her father looked horrified.

"No! He . . . shook him and scared him off. That was all! Sandor told me later that the man had left the city."

Her father huffed out a breath and glared down at the worn boards of the deck. "Damn Robert and that hunt," he murmured. "It was the worst idea he ever had, and he had plenty of them. I trail after him through the woods and leave you in the company of Sandor Clegane. In a span of weeks, I fail my daughter and abandon my men. Gods forgive me." He closed his eyes and shook his head. Then he pinched the top of the bridge of his nose as though he had a pounding headache.

"Father, you're too hard on yourself. No harm has come to anyone."

"I don't like it, Sansa. I should have been there for you then and I should still be there now for my men, though there may have been some merit to removing you and your sister from the city."

"Father, I don't think Sandor made any of it up. Joffrey would want his people to fear him."

"Then what was his motive for coming along?"

"He told you. He doesn't want to serve the Lannisters anymore."

"That's what he says but I don't trust him."

"Father -"

"I heard every word you said, Sansa, but his history is vicious and violent. That business with the butcher's boy . . ."

"He was following orders. You know that."

"I saw him bring the boy's body back." He paused, looking disapproving. "Some duties aren't meant to be enjoyed."

Sansa doubted Sandor could enjoy something so horrific, tender as he was with her. It was bad enough Arya carried a grudge against him because of that terrible incident. She didn't want her father's opinion clouded by it, too. "I'm sure he didn't enjoy it, Father," she said softly.

Ned looked unconvinced.

"Please just . . . don't make him leave Winterfell as soon as we get there. He's put himself in danger, too, and it was on our behalf." Seeing her father's expression she hurried to add, "Yes, he may benefit, too, but, please, don't cast him out just because you don't like him. Even you have to admit he's one of the best warriors in Westeros."

"Are you hinting that I should ask him to be your sworn shield?"

Sansa's eyes widened in surprise. "No. What use would I have of a sworn shield at Winterfell?" she answered without thinking.

"Good."

Sansa immediately regretted her thoughtless answer but, truly, she was perfectly safe at Winterfell. A sworn shield would be a laughable pretense.

"Father –"

"Sansa, I'm not happy that you deceived me in regards to your . . . knowledge of Sandor Clegane. I'll keep your opinion of him in mind but I'll make neither of you any promises. The most important thing now is getting home and regaining the trust of my men, if and when they come back. I could hardly blame them if they chose to serve a more faithful lord, and one who doesn't have the Lannister's dog trailing after him." He blew out a breath.

"They'll come home, Father, you'll see." Sansa leaned over and kissed his cheek. He squeezed her hand and smiled, though it did nothing to brighten his eyes. "Thank you for listening to me."

"Sansa," her father began.

"Yes?" she said when he didn't go on.

"I know your company is limited on this boat but men like Clegane aren't used to having the attention of pretty girls like you. Through no fault of your own, he might get the wrong idea. I want you to be careful. And I want you to tell me _at once_ if he or anyone else makes you feel uneasy."

Sansa sagged a bit. She hadn't convinced him of Sandor's worth but, still, it was a start and she felt better about admitting to their relationship, such as it was. If nothing else, she wouldn't have to feel as though merely talking to him was wrong. "I will, Father," she promised as she stood to leave.

Ned nodded and returned his gaze to the water.

Sansa looked down the length of the ship and, not seeing Sandor, set off to find him.


	16. Chapter 16

Author's Note: Hello to everyone following this story! I'm very flattered that there are so many of you and apologize for the long wait for this chapter. Hope you enjoy it. :-)

Sansa found Sandor in the hold where the horses were being kept. He was talking quietly to Stranger and stroking his nose, though he turned quickly when he sensed her arrival.

"Little bird."

Sansa smiled. "I just talked to Father about us."

"_What?_" Dark fire ignited in his eyes.

"I didn't tell him everything!" she assured him as quietly as she could.

The breath fell out of Sandor's mouth and he looked around as though expecting the person behind this mummery to step forward and reveal the jape. "Are you trying to get me killed?"

"I told him we were _friends_. Nothing more. I thought it would help if he wasn't so . . . suspicious of you."

"And telling him that we're _friends_ would make him _less_ suspicious?"

Sansa tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for why that would be but, when he put it that way, there wasn't much she could say. "I thought it would help if he knew I think well of you and that you've been kind to me. I told him how you saved me from William Dench . . ." She quailed when she saw he still looked annoyed. "You'd rather go on fighting? How will that help anything?"

"He doesn't need to like me to see sense." Sandor turned his back on her and went back to Stranger. He picked up a brush and began to smooth it over the horse's glossy black coat.

Sansa watched him for a moment. "It would be ever so nice if you got along."

Sandor gave her a withering look over his shoulder. "Don't start writing a song, little bird."

"There's nothing wrong with wanting to be happy."

"Not if you like being disappointed."

Sansa pursed her lips and tilted her head to the side, regarding him through narrowed eyes. "You have no reason to be disappointed. So you might as well be happy."

Sandor turned and regarded her, a retort on his lips, but then his expression softened. He put down Stranger's brush and crossed the distance between them. "If you're not disappointed then I'm not, either," he said in a husky voice as he began to bend down toward her.

Just as Sansa's heart began to patter faster, Harry stepped into the shadows of the hold. "They're -" He stopped, seeming to sense that he'd interrupted something. Sandor and Sansa each stood straighter and leaned away from each other. "They're bringing food to the top deck for us."

Sandor grunted at him and, after looking at them each in confusion, Harry turned and left. "Should've found a bigger boat," Sandor muttered as he put away Stranger's grooming supplies, his horse knickering in protest.

As they ate their midday meal on the deck, Arya regaled them with tales of all she and Harry had seen and found on their excursions below deck, interrupting herself several times to greet various passing sailors by name. It seemed all of the sailors talked to Arya . . . but they looked at Sansa. She would nod or smile in return before demurely looking away but she could sense Sandor bristle every time it happened. Unwarranted though his reaction was, she understood it was driven by insecurity and pitied him his discomfort. She saw his frown deepen after another sailor tipped his head in acknowledgement of her and was grateful when Captain Dunellen stopped by.

"We'll make port in Gulltown tomorrow morning. Only for a few hours, mind."

"Lord Stark, may I go ashore when we dock, please?" Jeyne asked. Her queasiness was still making her uneasy and Ned had nearly had to insist she join them on the main deck to eat a little food.

Ned looked at her with sympathy but it was Sandor who answered. "No one's going ashore." He tore the remaining flesh off a chicken leg and chewed it, going on when he saw Jeyne turn imploring eyes upon Ned. "You might be recognized. Anyone with half a brain will know where we're going. No need to confirm it. Besides," he tossed the bone overboard, "your seasickness won't be helped by being on land. It'll only make it worse when we sail again."

Jeyne sagged and pouted.

"Here." Sandor pushed a flagon of wine toward her chuckling. "Drink enough of that and you won't care about the waves."

Ned looked nearly as displeased as Jeyne did. Sandor didn't seem to notice. He rose from the makeshift table where they dined and moved to talk with one of the sailors. Conversation resumed but Sansa noticed Sandor gave the sailor some coins and seemed to be conveying instructions.

The next morning was clear and bright and Jeyne leaned on the railing, looking wistfully at the shore as they approached Gulltown. Sansa's comments were met with one syllable answers until she fell silent. Sandor approached and rested a hand on her shoulder. "Go below decks," he said quietly. "You, too, girl," he added more loudly to Jeyne. "We don't need to be seen."

Jeyne stalked past him without a glance. "She just doesn't feel well," Sansa said by way of apology for her friend's behavior.

"Bugger that," he muttered, taking hold of Sansa's elbow as a fair-sized wave rolled the ship.

They found the rest of their party in the two cabins. The doors, including the connecting one between them, were open. Sansa heard her father explaining to Harry their anticipated route home. Harry was asking questions about the north, having only come into Sandor's service after they'd returned from Winterfell more than a year ago. Arya was interjecting with tidbits of information about the area, people, plants, and animals.

Sandor gave Sansa a gentle push on her lower back when they reached her door and then walked the few additional feet to enter the cabin he shared with his squire. Everyone listened as the ship bumped into port and the sailors called to one another. Sansa tried to make conversation but the stilted answers and general tension prevented the start of any kind of flow and soon they all sat in silence, listening to the sound of cargo being moved above their heads. Ned sat on the floor and leaned against the wall, lost in thought. Arya reclined on her bunk with her foot hanging over the edge, swinging it back and forth while she murmured nonsense like "patient as a turtle." Jeyne looked out the porthole until Ned suggested she'd be more comfortable away from the window; then she moved to her bunk, curled on to her side, and faced the wall. Harry, out of questions about the north, crawled into the top bunk in his cabin and slept. Sandor lounged on his own bunk and gazed at Sansa through the doorway, invisible to everyone in their cabin but Arya, who was facing the other way. Sansa sat as well and wished she'd brought her sewing.

Arya's foot nearly caught her in the face so she moved back, leaned against her pillow, and returned Sandor's gaze. He was laying back with his hands behind his head, one leg extended along the bunk, his other foot on the floor, knee bent. Sansa's eyes moved from his heavy boots to the space between his legs and over the flat plane of his stomach. The sleeves of his tunic had slipped down revealing the dense muscles in his forearms; his long, black hair lay this way and that over his broad shoulders. Sansa found his grey eyes regarding her openly and with interest. There was something so masculine and confident in his pose. Inviting, too. She longed to lay with him, fitting herself against him with her head on his shoulder and his strong arm curled around her. She'd trace her fingertips over his muscled abdomen and press her lips to the side of his neck. He'd -

Her father cleared his throat and Sansa started. _Such thoughts!_ She'd nearly forgotten that she and Sandor were not alone. She sneaked another look at him and the weight of his gaze was as heavy as ever. She looked away but her eyes couldn't help themselves. They flitted back to Sandor, who looked amused. He reached down and absentmindedly scratched at the light beard he'd grown. Sansa's eyes took in his jaw before moving down to his neck. Her favor was long gone but she pondered giving him another. When she looked back at his face, she found the corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk. He crooked a finger in invitation to join him. Sansa felt her brow furrow and her eyes slid to her father. _He can't be serious._ She looked back and saw Sandor was grinning, enjoying her confusion. Sansa wrinkled her nose at him but was delighted by his teasing. After ascertaining that her father wasn't paying attention and calling to mind some things she'd seen ladies of the court do, she turned away and slowly dragged her fingertips along the side of her neck and across her collarbone before letting her touch trail away over her chest. From the corner of her eye, she looked at Sandor and saw his grin had faded into something more heated. Sansa turned to regard him fully and allowed a smile to spread across her face.

Sandor shook his head at her in mock warning. He let his gaze rest heavily on her chest and then met her eye again, giving his head a small jerk to the side. Sansa looked down, unsure of what he wanted. She fingered the neckline of her gown and looked up at him through her eyelashes. Sandor gave a small nod. Sansa dipped her fingertips under the neckline at her shoulder and very slowly moved them down as though she intended to cup her breast, her eyes darting between Sandor and her father, liking that the former sat up to watch and dreading the notice of the latter. Sandor stared as her fingers skimmed over the tops of her breasts and then entwined themselves in her hair as she held his eye. The corner of his mouth twitched. Sansa gave a small jerk of her chin. _Your turn._ Sandor looked at her askance and then shook his head no. Sansa drew back in surprise but then nodded. _Yes. _Sandor shook his head again. Sansa shrugged one shoulder and made to turn aside, opening her mouth as though to address her father or Jeyne. Sandor cleared his throat. Sansa looked back at him with polite attention and was amused to find him looking ruffled, though she didn't let it show. Agitation plain on his face, he tossed his hands out, palms up, clearly asking, _What?_ Sansa took a moment to consider, suppressing a smile all the while.

She crossed her hands in front of her and tugged on an imaginary shirt hem. Sandor cocked his head to the side, all traces of amusement gone. Sansa cocked her own head and raised her eyebrows, waiting. Sandor huffed and glanced up at Harry's sleeping form. In one fluid motion, he stood and hauled his tunic up to his underarms. Sansa almost gasped in surprise at his sudden acquiescence but the sight of his naked torso silenced her. Her gaze flowed over his chest and along the trail of dark hair to his stomach, sinking into each valley between his muscles along the way. Her eyes lingered at his waist where the muscle appeared absolutely solid, the familiar indentations above his hipbones calling to her. She wanted to touch him so badly it nearly caused her to moan in frustration. With some effort, she raised her eyes to Sandor's face and indicated he should turn around. He did so and her fingertips tingled with the desire to slip down the depression in the middle of his back before clutching his hips. Just as her mind began to wander with that thought, his tunic dropped down and he sat on his bunk.

Sansa blinked and closed her mouth. Sandor looked at her. Sansa felt worse for the tease. A fun diversion became a gnawing ache and Sansa didn't try to hide it from Sandor. He gave her a grim look in return but something in his manner settled. He crooked his finger at her again with a faint smile. Sansa frowned and shook her head, hating that she couldn't throw herself into his arms and tumble down onto his bunk with him. His smile broadened as he nodded. Despite herself, Sansa felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. She stole a look at her father and then motioned for Sandor to come to her.

Her breath choked off in her throat when Sandor rose and strode toward her, his gaze never wavering from her face. _What is he doing? _He ducked through the doorway into her cabin and, looking her full in the face, said, "Lord Stark?" Then his eyes moved over to her father as Sansa's heart threatened to pound through her chest.

"Yes?"

"I'm going to find Dunellen and see when we sail again. It's been quiet up there for a while."

Her father rose from the floor. "I'd like to talk with him, too, and see if he sent those ravens. Sansa, Arya, Jeyne, please stay here."

Ned moved toward the door and Sandor followed him, favoring Sansa with a smug look on his way out. Sansa's cheeks burned for several minutes after their departure.

An hour later, they left Gulltown and were free to return to the top deck. One of the sailors approached Sandor with a bag.

"What's that?" Arya asked.

"Arya!" Sansa hissed under her breath. Her sister's manners were no better at sea than on land.

Everyone was looking at Sandor now. To Sansa's surprise, he said, "I'll show you." He moved toward the makeshift table upon which they'd taken to eating their meals.

Sansa and the rest of their party gathered around.

He pulled out a board of alternating colored squares from the bag, followed by various pieces representing parts of an army, though there were an elephant and a dragon, too. "It's a game. Lady Sansa, would you care to play?"

"I'd be happy to. How do you play?"

Sandor looked toward the sailor who'd brought it to him and the man explained that the game was called Cyvasse and he went over the rules and what to do with the pieces. Sandor sat opposite Sansa and they arranged their pieces, both generally ignoring the advice of Harry and Arya who were looking over their shoulders, Arya insisting on playing the winner. Ned and Jeyne remained silent and sat in the middle. Sansa had no tactical experience and found she was more comfortable playing defensively. Sandor, for his part, tried to nudge her into opposition and eventually won when Sansa ran out of room to move. Sansa didn't mind losing. The game was fun and she was grateful for something they could do together.

Arya eagerly took Sansa's place and soon the pairs rotated as everyone had a turn.

"Was there any news from King's Landing?" Sansa asked her father as he frowned at the board. He moved a piece and then it was Sandor's turn to furrow his brow in concentration.

"Only that we'd gone and are presumed to be heading north. A small band of men have been sent after us, though I suspect Cersei will concentrate her efforts on Renly and Stannis."

"She might but Joffrey's the king," Sandor interjected.

Ned looked at his pieces as he asked, "How much control over him would you say Cersei has?" Sansa knew her father was not as nonchalant about his question as he appeared.

"Increasingly little," Sandor answered.

"The boy has been ill-governed."

Sandor looked at Ned for a beat before replying, "Aye, he has been. If Joffrey wants to send more men after us," Sansa noted the strange inflection he seemed give the word 'us,' "he'll find a way to do it. Cersei's grip on him has been slipping. The only one who can keep him in check is Lord Tywin, and he's no friend of yours."

"No, he's not," Ned agreed.

"Was there any word of our household?" Sansa asked.

Her father pressed his lips together before answering, "There was rumor of a slaughter."

"Not that it means anything, lit-, Lady Sansa," Sandor immediately interjected.

"A slaughter?" Sansa pressed a hand to her chest as a flood of grief began to rise up inside her.

Sandor turned toward her and took her other hand in his. "It's a rumor only. Pay it no mind. More likely than not, it's a tactic to get Lord Stark to turn back and walk into an ambush. False reports are sometimes more useful than real ones in war. Save your tears, girl. They're not needed yet." He squeezed her hand and let go of it, and Sansa felt the weight of her father's eyes fall away from her hand just as much as she did the release of Sandor's fingers.

"What he says is true, Sansa," her father said.

"Was there news of my father?" Jeyne wanted to know.

Ned's face softened. "There were no individual reports, Jeyne. I'm sorry. I've sent a raven to Winterfell. If it gets there, we may have more news when we reach home."

Jeyne nodded sadly and wandered away from the table.

Since her father was discussing events in the capital, Sansa thought she might ask about something that had been bothering her. "Father, why didn't you support Joffrey's claim to the throne? It was . . . unlike you."

Ned blew out a breath and leveled a look at Sandor. "You didn't tell her?"

Sandor raised his eyes to Ned's and then lowered them again, advancing one of his pieces and removing one of Ned's from the board. "No."

"Your mother might be better able to explain - "

"Piss on that. She's going to hear it anyway. Might as well be from you."

"Thank you for your council," Ned answered sharply.

"Hear what?" interjected Arya.

"Surprised you don't know already," Sandor said with half a laugh, "Running all over the castle as you were."

"What is it? What does everyone know but us?" Sansa asked, frustrated that she seemed to be unaware of something that appeared to be general knowledge throughout the capital.

"I didn't support Prince Joffrey's claim because he is not Robert's true heir."

Sansa gasped as Arya screwed up her face in confusion. "How could he not be?"

"Robert fathered many children, but not Joffrey."

"Then who is Joffrey's father?" Arya asked.

"Father, why did you make a match between us if you knew I'd never been queen?" It was irrelevant now but, given the heartache Joffrey had caused her, Sansa wanted to know.

"Who his father is isn't important -"

"Jaime Lannister," Sandor interrupted.

"Ewwww!" Arya all but yelled.

"No!" Sansa couldn't believe it. The queen was many things but to take part in such an abomination . . .

"Clegane, I'll thank you to let me protect my daughters from such -"

"Feeding them half-truths isn't protection from anything. Your one daughter was nearly queen yet you'd have half the realm be better informed than her -"

"Please! Don't fight!" Sansa was still reeling from the shock. The memory of being kissed by Joffrey's wormlips was doubly repugnant now. She felt tainted. "Father, how could you have made me a match -"

"I didn't know, Sansa, or I wouldn't have. Robert died believing that boy was his own. Once I found out, though, I couldn't allow him to take a throne he had no right to. Lord Stannis is Robert's heir. That's why I supported him."

"What about Myrcella and Tommen?" Arya asked.

Ned looked at Sandor, who simply said, "They're Jaime's, too."

Arya clucked her tongue in disgust.

Sansa felt truly sorry for them. "Do they know?"

"No," Sandor answered.

There was a moment where no one spoke. "How long have you known?" Sansa asked.

"Since the day he was born, though I suspected it before then."

"And everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows?"

"If they don't, they'll hear about it soon enough."

"You don't sound like you care very much, after spending all those years protecting him," Arya observed with a faint trace of judgment in her voice.

"Joffrey has turned reckless and cruel but his parentage is not his fault. No one chooses their family."

Arya looked like she might have something to say to that but Sansa caught her eye and silenced her with a look.

Later that evening, Sansa sat with Sandor again at the table to play Cyvasse. Instead of sitting across from one another, they were nearly side-by-side.

"You've been quiet, little bird," Sandor rumbled as they laid out their pieces.

"I don't know what to say. I know the Targaryens -" She shifted and her knee bumped against Sandor's. Sandor moved his leg so his knee maintained light contact with hers. She didn't move away.

"I'm not talking about Joffrey."

"Oh." Sansa didn't know what he was referring to then. Little else had been on her mind that day.

Sandor stared at her for a second before looking down and nudging another piece into place. "You haven't said anything about your last night in King's Landing."

Sansa cast her mind back. The last night she'd been in King's Landing had been the night they'd left. She'd gone to bed only to be awoken by Jeyne. Then it hit her. Her last full night in King's Landing had been spent in bed with Sandor. He'd come to her and they'd - a blush began to spread over Sansa's cheeks - they'd been as husband and wife together. He'd pleasured her without taking her maidenhead, as he promised, and he'd helped her to satisfy him by guiding her hand over his - Sansa's cheeks burned a few degrees hotter.

"I've not forgotten," she said so quietly she could barely hear herself.

Sandor looked at her dubiously and grunted and Sansa knew it was not what he'd wanted to hear. It was true she'd not forgotten, though. She knew she'd never forget.

"It was . . .," she broke off in a nervous giggle. Doing it was one thing, talking about it was another.

Sandor looked at her from under his brow. Sansa knew she needed to relay her real feelings quickly. "I wish this ship was more private." She looked at him hoping he understood. "I miss you," she added on a breath.

Sandor's knee pushed against the side of hers as his eyes dropped down to the board, though he didn't seem to be paying attention to the game. Sansa nudged his knee in return. He shifted and brought his other leg around before bringing them together so her knee was between his legs.

"Not sorry?" he murmured as he tapped his catapult into a different box.

"No. It was wonderful," she said in a low voice, unable to stop a smile from spreading across her face.

Sandor squeezed his knees together and tried to pull her closer, a softer if somewhat mischievous look in his eyes. Sansa giggled and relished the feel of him. The sight of his naked torso was fresh in her mind and now, being touched by him, she felt tingly all over.

"You surprised me this afternoon," she said under her breath.

Sandor grunted. "You hardly play fair."

Sansa smiled and moved to collect one of his pieces, her fingertips brushing along the inside of Sandor's wrist as she did so. His hand moved as though it would hold hers but then stopped. The sun continued to sink in the horizon as they touched as inconspicuously as possible, the game all but forgotten.

Suddenly Arya appeared next to the table. "Whose turn is it?" she asked after taking in the disposition of the board.

"Mine," they both answered before sputtering out confused apologies and recounting bogus last moves.

Arya looked at them from the side of her eye as she moved away. "What's _with _you two?" she muttered before walking off.

Sansa looked at Sandor. She knew they should be more discreet but, compared with what she _wanted_ to do with him, a few brushes of skin here and there felt like incredible restraint. As the sun sank lower, she slipped her foot out of her shoe and traced a lazy path up and down Sandor's ankle, hidden within her skirts. She knew he probably couldn't feel much of it through his boot but he'd stiffened when she'd first done it. He eventually reached down and squeezed her calf, dragging his hand down to her foot, which he also squeezed, before sitting up again. Moments later her father had come into sight and she felt the chill of nearly being caught. Ned had looked in on their game and they'd talked briefly but Sansa couldn't truly relax even after his departure.

Her eyes moved over Sandor's large fingers as he picked up a piece and his high cheekbones as he pretended to consider a move. A pang of want rattled her. A whirlpool of frustration seemed to be pulling her down from the inside. _Maybe if I tell Father we've been more than friends, he wouldn't be upset. He and Sandor have been getting along well today . . ._ Sansa shook her head to dispel her crazy thoughts. Desire was making her stupid and reckless.

"You alright?" Sandor asked, glancing up at her.

Sansa just looked into his gray eyes, her lips parted. Everything felt muted and fuzzy. She didn't register much of anything besides a deep, instinctual desire to join with the man in front of her.

Sandor looked back at her. "Go to my cabin. I'll be there in a few minutes."


	17. Chapter 17

Sansa gathered up the game too quickly and ended up dropping pieces everywhere. Sandor squatted down to help her pick them up. "Slow down, girl."

A blush bloomed under her cheeks. Such eagerness wasn't becoming in a lady, she knew, but she was practically panting to be in Sandor's arms. She wanted to feel him in so many ways that her mind spun with the possibilities. She wanted to feel his rough beard on her shoulder as he lay on top of her. She wanted to press her soft breasts against the chiseled plates of his chest. She wanted him to draw her nipples between his lips and suck on them just hard enough to bring her sweet pain. His hands she wanted everywhere. She wanted his mouth on her, too. His mouth most of all. When he was done, his teeth could graze her ear as his manhood slid over her woman's place and, _gods_, she wanted whatever she could have as fast as she could have it. Low, common, wanton thoughts, all, but Sansa's hazy mind diffused her morals. She was driven by the ache in her breasts and the tremors along her inner thighs.

"Don't be long," she whispered, half ashamed of her need.

"I'll give Harry something to do to keep him away from the cabin and then I'll be back."

"Shall I undress?" _Please say yes_, she thought. The sooner his skin was against hers, the better.

"No, let me do that," he said huskily. "We won't have much time but . . . you won't go wanting."

Sansa shoved the game pieces back in the bag and stood, aware of the moisture gathering between her legs. Her eyes met Sandor's one more time and then she turned and headed for the stairs down to their cabins.

Just as she was about to push the cabin door open, her father's voice reached her from the end of the passageway. "Sansa!" he called sharply as he approached her with long, even strides. "What are you doing?"

His tone stung and Sansa's heart fell clear to her heels. She had been so close. "I'm just returning Sandor's game."

"Is he in there?" Ned asked in what was not much of a whisper.

"I don't -"

"Sansa, we _just_ talked about this. Men like Clegane -"

"What do you mean, men like Clegane? Father, why do you insist on thinking the worst of him?"

"I insist on honor -"

"He has honor -"

"He abandoned his post -"

"So did you!"

"To keep you and your sister safe -"

"But we were only in danger because you supported Lord Stannis!"

Her father drew back as though she'd slapped him and Sansa was ashamed of herself. "I'm sorry, Father."

For a long, horrible moment, he didn't say anything. He just looked at her with incensed disappointment and it broke her heart. "I'm sorry," she repeated.

Just then Sandor entered the passageway, pausing for a second when he saw Ned standing with Sansa. Then he continued up the hall, his face free of expression. Her father turned and gave him a dark look.

"Something wrong, Stark?" Sandor asked, the barest hint of aggression in his tone.

"My daughter has just been demonstrating the influence you've had on her."

"She just saved your life?" he asked as his eyes flicked over to Sansa before returning to her father.

Lord Stark was not amused. "Enough, Clegane. I've tolerated your liberal speech and high-handed behavior for longer than I've cared to already."

"Look around, Stark. This isn't King's Landing -"

"Please stop arguing!" Sansa didn't want this moment to get any worse than it already was.

"Is that my influence, too?" Sandor glared at Ned. "Or just the things you don't want to hear?"

"Sandor, please stop!" If they continued to argue, her father might refuse to let her spend any time with Sandor and that had to be avoided at all costs.

Sandor held his tongue, standing as straight as he could in the cramped corridor. Sansa looked at him and her father. Both men were tall with dark hair and gray eyes and, at the moment, both had their jaws set stubbornly.

"I came to return your game," Sansa said, holding out the bag to Sandor.

"My thanks," he answered, taking it from her.

"It is inappropriate to ask Lady Sansa to enter your cabin -" Ned began.

"He didn't!" Sansa immediately cut in, seeing Sandor about to reply. "I just wanted to return it, since he was kind enough to get it for us all to play with. Father, you have to acknowledge how nice it's been to have something to do . . ."

"Sansa -," her father began.

"The girl's done nothing wrong."

"It's not your place to -"

"My place was in the throne room, slaughtering your men if you were fool enough to deny Cersei -"

"Enough!" Ned snapped. "The Lannisters may have put up with your insolence but I will not!"

"Even the truth is insolence when you don't want to hear it!"

"Father, please, he -"

"Sansa, this man doesn't need or deserve your defense. He's killed on the Lannisters' word and whored and drank on the Lannisters' gold -"

Sansa knew her father was angry now; he normally did not talk of such things in front of her.

"The same as your friend Robert," Sandor observed.

"You leave him out of this."

"By your reckoning, our offenses are the same. Only I didn't father any bastards."

Sansa's mind immediately went to Jon Snow and, by the narrowing of her father's eyes, she suspected his did, too.

"Robert -"

"- started a war for your sister's cunt. Don't try to tell me any different."

"Robert had many faults but -"

"But _his_ you overlook."

Ned favored him with a sour look. "- but you prospered well enough in his court."

"The Lannisters prosper no matter whose arse is on that throne, Lord Hand, but they don't spend their gold without getting something in return."

"I doubt it took much of their gold to get you to kill innocents -"

"_Innocents_," Sandor scoffed.

Ned curled his lip in distaste. "You have sins enough to atone for, Clegane, without disrespecting the dead."

"What do you know of my sins?" Sandor asked in a hard voice.

"You rode that boy down, for one."

Sandor turned aside and for a moment Sansa thought he would punch the wall. "Always back to that boy," he growled. Turning to face Ned again he said more loudly, "He was dead the instant Joffrey named him. Yes, I rode him down. I gave him a quick, clean death, which is more than he would have gotten from Cersei or the prince."

"He would have had a trial before the king."

"Why don't you ask your daughter how fair the king's trial was? Or do you like killing direwolves?"

"He had no choice!" Sansa felt obligated to say. She knew that terrible ordeal had bothered her father long after it was over, though he'd said little about it.

"And I did?" Sandor replied.

Sansa wanted to be fair and loyal to them both but showing loyalty to one might appear to be withdrawal of it from the other and she felt trapped in the middle.

"Yes, you did! The boy was to be brought in for questioning but you chose to kill him," her father said.

"I spared him -" The corner of Sandor's mouth was twitching madly and his hands were clenched on his swordbelt.

"Spared him! You cut him near in two!"

"You would have rather seen him hang?" Sandor rasped angrily. "Because a rope is all he would have gotten. You'd have had the boy's father stand witness to that? You think Robert, who was bored by anything he couldn't fuck, fight, or drink, would have wanted that tale traveling down the Kingsroad with him? To have every peasant scorn him even as they begged for his coin? I spared your friend just as much as I spared that boy. The people loved the king and hated his hound. Sneer all you like. It was for the best."

"The best, you call it? It was senseless cruelty. He was just a scared young boy -"

"Was he more afraid than that deserter of the Night's Watch? Oh yes, we heard all about your justice when we came to Winterfell. The great Lord Eddard Stark doesn't use a headsman. Too bloody noble for that. You executed a man for being afraid and yet you stand here on this ship and dare judge me? Lady Sansa's pet was no more guilty of attacking the prince than that boy yet you killed her just the same. Spare me -"

"It was an awful night!" Sansa cried. Her head was spinning. Each word they uttered hurt her deeply, as she knew, though neither would admit it, their words hurt each other. "The queen was most unfair. Truly, she's the one who should bear the blame. She and Joffrey."

"And yet Clegane was loyal to such a queen."

"Tell me," Sandor spread his hands wide, anger burning in his eyes, "how is the north not overrun with men seeking to be in your service if your retainers are allowed to do as they please?"

"You would be one of those retainers, if given the chance."

Sandor drew back and was silent. Sansa held her breath. The words dangled and twisted in the air like a body from a branch.

When she could take the silence no longer, Sansa said, "You're so much alike, it's - no, you are," she added when they both seemed about to protest. "It's terrible to hear you argue when you are both doing what you think is best," she finished lamely, wishing she could make them each see the other as she saw them.

Sandor cut his eyes to her and her father opened his mouth to respond when the sound of whistling reached them from around the corner. Everyone turned to see the arrival of Brien, the first mate. Seemingly oblivious to the tension in the air, he said, "Lord Stark, Cap'n Dunellen would see you, if it please you."

Ned ground his teeth together but nodded his acquiescence. "Sansa, please go inside the cabin. I'll speak with you in a few minutes."

Upon her father's return, Ned crossed the room and bolted the door that joined the two cabins. Sandor was in the other room and she knew he'd hear the bolt sliding into place. It felt like a very public recrimination.

Ned sat on Jeyne's bunk and said in a low voice, "Sansa, you're not to enter Clegane's cabin. Is that clear? He might take it as an invitation."

"You make him sound wild, Father. He can control himself," she argued, though quietly. "He's been alone with me before and has" – Sansa pushed away the lurid memories crowding her mind – "has always treated me considerately." That was a half-truth. Sandor had often been aggressive, crude, and drunk when she'd first met him. Still, his recent treatment of her had been wonderful and she felt certain this was more true to his nature.

"He's a flatterer, then. I wouldn't have suspected it of him. Still, there's no end to the sort of tricks some men will use to cajole young women into . . ." He gestured vaguely.

"Into what?"

"Didn't your mother warn you . . . she must have, growing up with Littlefinger . . ."

Sansa was not about to admit she was beyond warning. "She said she would explain everything when she came to King's Landing for my wedding."

Her father suddenly looked tired. "Sansa . . . you have a trusting nature, one that unscrupulous men might try to manipulate. Please listen," he said when she made to interrupt. "I failed to guard you as closely as I should have in King's Landing but I don't want you to be unaware of the dangers of your position. You are the elder daughter of House Stark and for some men that's temptation enough. That you're beautiful like your mother will be further inducement still. Some men will try to charm you with compliments or tales of their own daring or wealth or worth. Others will bring you gifts and make you promises. The worst of them will use threats or force. I will do better at protecting you from them all."

Exasperated but touched, Sansa said, "Father, you make every man sound like the vilest scoundrel. Surely there must be some decent men in the realm." She couldn't help thinking of Sandor.

"No man in a hundred will be worthy of you but I will not make you another match until I am certain of the man's character."

Sansa wanted to hug him.

"Still, I want you to be wary. It's likely we'll have visitors and guests at Winterfell and I'll have to call my bannermen . . ." He trailed off and looked away and Sansa could see the strain he was under.

"I will be wary. I promise. But you should trust me, too."

Ned nodded and stood. He crossed over to her bunk and kissed the top of her head before moving to the door. He muttered a few words to himself as he walked away but the only one she caught was "Cat."

After her father left, Sansa lay on her bunk and listened to the ship creaking, her mind quickly returning to Sandor. Her body hadn't forgotten the pleasure it had been denied and soon the ache between her legs was almost painful. Sansa thought about satisfying herself but wanted to cry at the shoddy substitute her fingers would be for Sandor's. Still, the ache was a distraction. She tossed and turned on her bunk and could find no comfort. _Best just to do it and get it over with. _Then, at least, her body could rest even if her mind continued to twist in torment._ I wish I could be with Sandor,_ she thought over and over. At last, though, the nagging of her body won out over the arguments of her mind and she slid her hand down towards her woman's place.

Then the door flew open and Jeyne came in. Sansa's hand jerked and she hastily pretended to smooth her skirts.

"Oh, there you are."

Sansa struggled to sit up. Never had she wanted company less. "Are you not feeling well? Would you like some privacy?" She didn't wish illness on her friend but she desperately wanted to be alone.

"I had some ginger tea. It's helping."

"I'm glad to hear it."

Jeyne lay down on her bunk and after a moment asked, "How long do you think it will take my father to return to Winterfell?"

Sansa's stomach froze. "I . . . I'm not certain, Jeyne. Of course we must hope for the best but if there was fighting . . ."

"I heard what the Hound said. It might be a false report. Willard says the Hound is a good commander as well as a fierce fighter so he must know about such things."

"I'm certain his word can be relied upon. No one would harm an unarmed steward," Sansa said in an attempt to reassure her friend.

Jeyne nodded and lapsed into silence. After a few minutes she said, "Do you think your father would take Willard into his service if he came north?"

Sansa suppressed a groan. "I think it would be unsafe for him to attempt to come north right now. He's sworn to the Lannisters, isn't he?"

"Yes," Jeyne answered with a pout before adding, "I'm going to send him a message when we reach Winterfell."

"Jeyne," Sansa said gently, "it might not be a good idea to send messages to the capital -"

Jeyne turned on her side and looked at Sansa. "Just one, to let Willard know I didn't leave because I wanted to, that it was all the Hound's doing."

_Why must everyone blame him for everything?_ "You should ask my father before you send anything. If the raven was intercepted . . ."

Jeyne seemed not to hear. She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. "I wish I was still in King's Landing."

Sansa sighed quietly. "You don't mean that. It wouldn't be safe."

"My father and Willard would protect me."

Vayon Poole was steady, kind, and intelligent, but he was not a warrior. Willard had acquitted himself well against Sandor and certainly seemed to care for Jeyne but there was no lack of skilled swordsmen in King's Landing. Sansa struggled for something kind yet truthful to say. "I'm certain they would try their very hardest –"

Jeyne turned to give Sansa a look. "Just because the Hound himself has chosen to look after _you_ doesn't mean no one would protect _me_."

Sansa's jaw fell open. "No, of course not! Willard is very capable and your father would know just want to do . . ."

Jeyne appeared slightly mollified by that. "He _is_ very capable and my father . . ." She frowned and her brow creased as though she were trying not to cry.

"Jeyne . . ." Sansa was at a loss.

Jeyne rolled off the bunk and stood, avoiding Sansa's eye. "I think I'll go visit the horses. They must be lonely down there."

"That's a thoughtful idea," Sansa murmured as her friend left the cabin.

Sansa gripped the edge of the bunk and blew out a breath as she gazed up at the ceiling.

"Are you alright, Lady Jeyne?" she heard Harry ask from the hall.

"Yes, thank you," Jeyne answered in a high voice, her footsteps fading as she went up the stairs.

The door to the adjoining cabin opened and closed.

"Did you finish cleaning out the hold?"

It was so quiet that Sansa could hear every word, though she knew Sandor was not speaking loudly. It gave her a crawly feeling to realize that he must have been able to hear her exchange with Jeyne.

"Yes."

The dull clunk of metal pieces being moved around could be heard and Sansa surmised that one or both of them must be cleaning armor. The sadness, worry, and tension they all felt was oppressive. Sansa stared at the floor, overwhelmed into numbness. Her eyes moved over the knots and grain of the wood and drew her mind away from her troubled thoughts.

Sometime later, she heard Harry's tentative voice. "Hound?"

Sandor grunted in response.

"Am I to be Lady Sansa's squire, too?"

"Ladies don't have squires."

"You told me to do anything Lady Sansa asked."

"I did but that was my order, not hers."

"I know but it looked like you were going to kiss her down in the hold so I thought -"

"Can you swim, boy?"

"No . . ."

"Remember that before you say anything else about what you think you saw." Wood creaked as Sandor's footsteps approached the door. "Finish the breastplate and then put all this away."

Harry's apology was muffled by the sound of the closing door. Sansa felt badly for him. He was truly alone of the six of them and now he'd incurred Sandor's displeasure.

A part of her hoped Sandor was coming to talk with her but when he passed by her door without pausing, her disappointment cut all the deeper. Sansa looked at the moon through the porthole and felt how alone they were even as they were crowded against one another on the ship._ Seven help me,_ she thought. _Can things get any worse?_


	18. Chapter 18

The next day and the days after that were an exercise in tedium. The gray sky and dark water surrounding them made it feel like they weren't moving forward at all but instead were bobbing endlessly in an empty sea in a world that contained no one but themselves. No amount of walking the decks, staring at the horizon, or talking about events grown stale by lack of news hastened the endless hours of the day. Everyone was heartily sick of Cyvasse.

"Come on, Sansa!" Arya cajoled. "It's not like you have anything else to do! Harry said he'd try it and even the Hound said maybe . . ."

"Oh, alright," Sansa answered. She and Sandor had neither avoided each other nor spent much time together since his argument with her father days before. Things had settled into an uneasy calm. Like everything else, it seemed like nothing would happen until they reached land.

"_You'll_ like it. It'll be like sewing," Arya promised, her pleasure at her sister's acquiescence evident in the smile on her face.

Sansa followed her to the rear of the ship where one of the sailors was cutting off lengths of rope and chatting with Harry. Sandor was seated on a box of cargo, idly fashioning a piece of rope into a noose and slowly pulling the loop until it was snug around his hand and then sliding the knot down again to loosen it. When he noticed their arrival, he sat up and watched Sansa, shifting over to make room next to him on the box. Sansa sat as close to him as would be acceptable and was grateful his shoulders were so broad that his arm couldn't help but brush against hers.

"This is Bill," Arya said. "He's going to show us how to make knots!"

Bill nodded to the group and handed each of them except Sandor a length of rope.

Sansa followed along successfully for the first few knots but the rough rope was nothing like her silken embroidery thread and it irritated her hands when she pulled it tight. Sandor seemed bored but was able to make each knot correctly on the first pass. When he was done, he'd help Sansa, often pulling her rope so tight that he then had to loosen it for her before they began their next knot.

"This way, little bird," he murmured, coiling the rope and sliding the end through just so before looking up at her with a glint in his eyes. "Now you try."

Sansa tried to keep her demure smile from breaking into a grin as Sandor's hands guided hers through the movements. "Oh, I see where I went wrong now. Thank you."

"What are you two whispering about?" Arya demanded.

Sandor groaned and looked about to snap in response so Sansa said, "He's showing me how. I had the end going through the wrong loop."

Arya still looked displeased but didn't respond.

Harry was frustrated almost from the start. He made knots aplenty but few of them resembled the intricate twists Bill was demonstrating.

"No, Harry, like this!" Arya said, slowly passing the end of her rope back through two loops she had made. While Harry tried to follow along, Sansa coiled her rope around her wrist and wished it was the bracelet Sandor had given her. She'd tucked it away with her belongings for safe keeping but she missed wearing it and looked at the rope wistfully. "Sansa! You're not even trying!"

"She already did it," Sandor said.

"Where's _your_ knot?" Arya challenged.

"I already know this one," Sandor answered with a glare.

"Pardon me for trying to give us something to do," Arya muttered as she angrily twisted her rope into a slip knot.

"Arya, we're all trying the different knots . . ." Sansa said in an attempt to placate her.

"I'll fix her later," Sandor said under his breath.

Sansa turned questioning eyes on him. "What do you mean?"

"That's enough for sail knots. I can show you some mooring knots," Bill offered, clearly uncomfortable with the displeasure of his audience.

"Would mooring knots be better than sail knots for keeping a shelter in place in the wind?" Sandor asked, drawing Bill into a conversation that kept them and Harry busy for the next several minutes.

Sansa moved to stand next to her sister. "This was a good idea. We're learning a lot."

"Nobody's learning anything because nobody's doing it right."

"Everyone's trying and Sandor has been able to do them all."

Arya grumbled and yanked on the ends of her rope. Shortly thereafter the lesson broke up and Arya stalked off, Harry trailing after her asking if she wanted to feed the horses with him.

Sansa sighed. "It feels like we're never going to get to White Harbor," she remarked.

Sandor squeezed her shoulder. "It feels like we're never going to be alone," he rumbled under his breath.

They ambled along the deck, eventually encountering Jeyne coming up from the cabins.

"I was just talking with your father, Sansa. He said he'd think about letting me send a message to Willard," she said, smiling. It was the first time since they'd left King's Landing that Sansa had seen her friend look happy.

"You think he's forgotten you so soon?" Sandor asked, amused.

Jeyne gave him a look. "I'm certain he remembers me," she replied frostily.

Sandor smirked. "So you're going to court him from Winterfell?"

"_No_."

"Send a flock of ravens to his door to keep the other maids away?"

"There are no other maids."

"There will be if you keep reminding him of what he can't have. Forget him. And let him forget you. There are plenty of eager foolish boys at Winterfell, the way I remember it."

"I won't forget Willard any more than he'll forget me." Jeyne tipped her chin up and looked at Sandor defiantly.

Sandor snickered. "You might like wasting away for love but I doubt he does."

"What would you know about love?"

Sansa gasped but Sandor threw his head back and laughed. "The sea air has made you brave, girl."

Jeyne seemed to take that as something of a compliment, squaring her shoulders before saying to Sansa that she would see her at the evening meal and walking off.

"You shouldn't tease her about Willard," Sansa said gently. "Her heart is probably breaking."

Sandor snorted. "That's not all. Haven't you wondered why she's here, little bird?"

Sansa stared at him. She hadn't, actually. She'd just assumed it had been a kindness on Sandor's part.

Smug amusement shown on his face. "Did you think I went to her first? No, I was going to wake you before going to your father. I found her sneaking back to the Tower of the Hand. _Carrying a lantern._" He shook his head and laughed.

"Where -?"

"Where do you think?"

Sansa felt her face fall open in surprise.

"Believe it, girl." With a wicked look he added, "She should thank me for coming across her on her way _back_."

"Lord Stark," Jeyne asked as everyone at that evening, "when will we reach White Harbor?"

"In several more days, if the winds stay with us."

"White Harbor is an obvious choice," Sandor said in a flat voice. "We should talk to Dunellen about landing somewhere else."

"Where would you have us make port, Clegane?" Ned asked in an equally neutral tone.

"Are there any smaller ports nearby?"

"None that would hold a ship of this size."

"Any tributaries where we could row ashore?"

"I've been thinking something similar."

"Ramsgate?"

"Possibly. I've considered Weeping Water near the Dreadfort. I will need to speak with Lord Bolton anyway. If we landed there he could accompany us to Winterfell."

"I don't like Lord Bolton," Arya said. "He has dead fish eyes."

"Arya," their father chided with a look. "Lord Bolton is a faithful bannerman of House Stark -"

"I know, I know!"

"Would Captain Dunellen be willing to sail farther north?" Ned asked Sandor.

"For enough coin."

Ned thought about that.

Sandor added, "White Harbor might serve well enough if we landed at night, or stayed aboard until dark and then made our way through the city quickly. It's the north but there are always nosey buggers in any port town."

"That's true enough. I'd like to be closer to Winterfell before our whereabouts become known."

Ned and Sandor continued to debate the merits of various ports for the duration of the meal and it pleased Sansa to see them talking together as equals.

The evening air was mild and everyone seemed content to linger around the table, except for Arya.

"The crow's nest is perfectly safe! Donal is up there all the time!"

"Arya, I said no."

"But it's the only place on the ship I haven't been!"

"The _only_ place? I hope you haven't been –"

"There's nothing else to _do_!"

"Play Cyvasse . . ."

"No!"

"Seven hells," Sandor muttered, standing. "Get that splinter of steel you call a sword off your belt, girl."

Arya eyed him, deep suspicion on her face. "Are you asking me to fight you?"

"No, I'm asking you to dance with me."

Arya frowned. "With _you_?"

"I'm not exactly useless with a sword, girl."

"You said dancing."

"Leave the dancing to your sister. Now get up."

"I don't want you fighting my daughter, Clegane," Ned interjected.

"Why'd you get her a sword if you didn't mean for her to use it?"

"She had an interest in learning and I saw nothing wrong with her being taught."

Sandor turned to Arya. "Did you have an interest in being good?"

It was no surprise to Sansa to see Arya's brow furrow at the challenge. "I'm good."

"I'm better," Sandor answered with a smirk.

"Clegane -"

"Seven hells, Stark, you'd have us all die of boredom? I'll leave her with her limbs - if she keeps them clear of my blade."

Arya rose to her feet and, moving to an open part of the deck, assumed what looked to Sansa to be a rather graceful, if not martial, pose. Sandor moved to face her and, as ever, stood solid as a stump. Arya leapt forward and swung her ridiculous sword in an arc, still eyeing Sandor with suspicion. He knocked her blade away with a snort. "That's it? That's all you've got?"

Arya nearly lunged at him but held herself in check, seeming to focus her thoughts, the light shimmering off her slim steel. When she did move, it was with purpose and a target in mind. Sandor blocked her again and again, but didn't disarm her or prevent her renewing her attack. Sansa worried the rocking of the ship or the dampness of the deck would result in an accidental injury and, despite her faith in Sandor's skill, her heart was in her throat. Ned stood to the side looking distinctly displeased but eventually seemed to relent and called out a few words of encouragement and advice until Arya told him to stop.

Every now and again Sandor would surge forward with a flurry and Arya would press her lips together in concentration. He said nothing but he varied the speed and aim of his attacks, sometimes taking a slow swipe at her legs or forcing her to raise her sword arm up to defend herself against quick flicks at her face. When she showed signs of fatigue, Sandor took a defensive stance and let Arya set the pace. The sailors gathered around and cheered them on, delighted by the sight of a high born girl not only wielding a sword but doing so on their ship against the feared and vicious Hound. Back and forth they went over the deck, Sandor's economy of motion in sharp contrast to the flair and finesse of Arya's prettier moves. Sandor steered the duel toward the mound of cargo they'd acquired in Gulltown and pressed Arya back, not allowing her to move to either side. He raised his parries until Arya's hand was above her head and then he jabbed the point of his sword into her sleeve at the wrist, pinning her for just a moment to the wooden crate behind her.

"You yield," he said as he pulled his sword out of the wood.

Arya frowned but nodded as she huffed and puffed. Sansa knew if Sandor had kept her pinned there any longer, Arya's pride would have been wounded, just as she knew Arya would have collapsed of exhaustion before yielding of her own accord. No one considered it a loss, though. The sailors were enthusiastic in their praise, even including Sandor in their commendations. "Well done, Arya," their father said, drawing a smile from his younger daughter.

The duel seemed to cut through some of the impatience that had accumulated during their journey and they sat on deck together and talked late into the evening. Sansa looked around at her companions and felt a contentedness she hadn't known since they'd left King's Landing.

The next morning Captain Dunellen approached as they were breaking their fast with bread and tea.

"Lord Stark, we're a day off the coast of the Fingers. Looks like a storm's coming. Best see to your horses today and secure your belongings. Brien can help if you've got questions."

Jeyne blanched. "Will it be a bad storm, Captain?"

Dunellen looked at her with pity. "It certainly will be for you, miss. I'll ask Brien to see you've got tea."

"Thank you," Jeyne murmured, looking miserable.

Sure enough, the next day was overcast and the winds picked up, making the sails crack and snap above their heads. As the waves swelled Jeyne grew pale and clammy-looking. Sansa sat next to her on a bench and patted her hand, encouraging her to look at the horizon and talking endlessly to keep her mind off the waves. Eventually Jeyne felt so poorly she asked for Sansa's help down to their cabin.

"I'll bring you some tea, Jeyne," Sansa offered after settling Jeyne on her bunk.

"Don't want any," she mumbled, her eyes squeezed shut.

"I'll look in on you a little later then."

Jeyne whimpered and Sansa's heart ached for her. As she went to look for Brien or Harry, Sansa came across Sandor and her father near the front of the ship.

"Jeyne's sick again. I was going to bring her some tea but she says she doesn't want any."

"Tea won't help. Not in a storm. Does she have a bucket ready?"

"There's one in the cabin."

"Won't do her any good if she can't find the target. I'll rig it up for her."

The three of them started for the stairs, Sandor grabbing some rope on the way. When they entered the cabin, Jeyne turned and looked even more green than when Sansa had left her moments before. Sandor knelt beside her and tied a length of rope to the leg of the bunk before attaching it to handle of the bucket. He made it as even with Jeyne's head as he could and then he tied the remaining rope to the handle and the other leg of the bunk. As he did so, Ned explained, "Jeyne, Captain Dunellen said we'll be moving closer to shore. It's possible we may escape the worst of it."

Jeyne gave a tiny nod.

"Aim for the bucket, girl. It'll move a little but at least you'll know where it is," Sandor said, standing.

Jeyne gave another small nod and closed her eyes, her hands clutching weakly at her blankets.

They took their leave of her and returned to the top deck where sailors running here and there securing cargo and inspecting rigging in preparation for the storm.

It began to rain shortly after the evening meal and everyone took cover below deck. The waves grew and it wasn't long before Jeyne was sick. She missed the bucket once and the rocking of the ship sent the foulness running towards Ned's blankets. He cleaned up the mess, quieted Jeyne's apologies with reassurances that she was no bother, and opened the porthole. Everyone seemed to tacitly agree that the cold air was preferable to the smell. To Sansa's surprise, her father then gathered up his blankets and rapped briefly on the door to Sandor and Harry's cabin before unbolting it and stepping inside. He made his bed in the bunk beneath Harry's. A lantern was left burning, its greasy light too weak to see by clearly, yet strong enough to prevent sleep from coming easily. Sansa could feel Sandor's gaze on her and she wondered if he could feel hers in return. Wondering only added to the length of the night.

The water continued to be rough the next day though the rain stopped for a time. Arya declared she could no longer take the smell and disappeared with a relieved-looking Harry to the horse hold. Sansa consoled the miserable Jeyne as best she could, helping her change into a fresh gown and taking her blankets away for cleaning.

Sansa found her father and Sandor talking again. They seemed to be debating the best way to leave White Harbor unseen but their discussion fell off when Sansa joined them.

"How's Jeyne?" her father inquired.

"She's suffering a great deal. I don't know what else to do for her."

"You've done all you can and more than most," Sandor told her.

"Surely there's something more . . ."

"Not unless you can calm the sea."

Sansa accepted that and turned her attention to the horizon as the ship rolled and her stomach with it. Far off in the distance she thought she saw land. "Are those the Fingers?"

"Yes," her father and Sandor replied together.

It must have been raining there, the way the clouds seemed to be smudged over the gray strip of barren land. It looked little more than a wasteland, deserted and hopelessly bleak.

"Lord Baelish was raised there? It's such a sad-looking place."

"Don't pity him, Sansa," her father said. "He found plenty to satisfy him in Riverrun and King's Landing."

Sansa didn't entirely understand the bitterness in her father's voice. Lord Baelish's manner was simultaneously off-hand and invasive but he had been a young boy once and she wouldn't wish any child to grow up in such a desolate place.

Eventually the rain she'd seen over the shore made its way out to sea and the cold drops drove everyone but the men tending the sails below deck. Jeyne was wretched and, to Sansa's surprise, her father allowed her to sit in Sandor's cabin, though he joined them. They talked of small matters but eventually lapsed into silence, the fierceness of the wind and rain and the rocking of the ship lulling them into quiet.

The closeness of the cabin, the surging tide, the burnt-oil smell of the lantern, and the sour odor of Jeyne's illness pressed against Sansa until she felt like she couldn't breathe. "I need some air," she murmured, gripping the bunk and taking uneven steps toward the door. Both Sandor and her father moved to join her but she said, "I'll just sit on the stairs for a moment."

Sansa made her way into the hall but something within her urged her up to the main deck. The wind was overwhelming, stifling her. She gasped and held her hand in front of her face until she was able to gulp down the rain-soaked fresh air, hoping to expel the acridness from the cabin air that seemed to have soaked into her blood and fouled it. Sansa staggered up the steps. _The bench. I'll sit there until I feel better._ She began to make her way across the deck toward the captain's quarters where a bench sat protected by an overhang. The heaving of the ship and the slickness of the deck made walking difficult. Sansa made to set her foot down but the deck fell away and she lost her balance, her knees slamming against the boards so hard she couldn't immediately get back up. The deck was cold and slimy and Sansa half slid to the railing where she pulled herself up. The ship climbed a swell and Sansa tried to hold tight to the railing, her palms sweating despite the chill in the air. She blinked as the ship fell into a trough and her stomach plunged with it. She tried to steady herself, to take a deep breath and reconcile herself with the rhythm of the waves but it felt as though something was fizzing behind her eyes. Without knowing how she got there, Sansa crumpled onto the bench, keeping as firm a grip as she could manage on the overhang support. Her stomach couldn't keep up with the tossing of the ship, though. With a shaky hand, she pushed back her dampened hair and prayed for the motion to stop, the contents of her belly sloshing violently within her. A huge wave slammed against the side of the ship. Sansa hung on, expecting to feel a plunge. Instead, the ship rose so quickly it dizzied her and the clash of rising and falling, sinking and soaring was more than she could bear. She pitched forward and threw up with such force she couldn't breathe. Sansa wanted to sob. Sailors scurried past her, looked at her, but didn't stop. The ship seemed to spin and Sansa heaved again, the foulness diluted by the rain but spreading this way and that on the deck in front of her. The sight alone was nearly enough to make her ill again but then her eye fell on a figure emerging from the stairwell.

"Sansa!"

"Father?" she mumbled, sinking against the wall.

"Sansa!" The figure made for her, arms wide to maintain balance.

The boat fell down the back of another large wave and Sansa closed her eyes and clung to the wooden beam. An instant later arms were around her and she was pulled against Sandor's solid chest. "Little bird! You weren't on the stairs!"

Sansa couldn't respond aside from pushing away from him. She opened and closed her mouth, struggling and failing to keep from vomiting again. Her tears felt hot on her cheeks as she spat and wiped her mouth on her sleeve, disconsolate that he had to see her in such a disgusting state.

He was talking to her, mumbling "it's alright" and other things that seemed foreign to her situation.

"I'm sick," she whimpered. She wanted to cry, to scream out her agony, but she was too weak to do anything but succumb to it.

"I know," was all he said. He pushed her hair off her face and dabbed at her mouth with his handkerchief, his other arm pressing her tight against his side.

"Sansa!" Suddenly her father was kneeling in front of her. "Come back inside before you get washed overboard!"

The thought of breathing in the stench of the cabin was enough to make her gag. She shook her head. "No, please . . . please don't make me. I need fresh air."

Her father pressed his lips together. "I'll sit with her," Sandor said. Sansa closed her eyes; her brain swirling around inside her skull.

"I'll check on Arya and Harry," she heard her father say over the whooshing of the water all around them. She felt Sandor nod.

The rain lashed the deck, spraying them with mist. Each moment seemed to last an age. Sansa begged the gods for relief but none came. Another bout of sickness came over her so quickly that she threw up on Sandor's leg and cried in earnest as he wiped it off.

"Little bird," Sandor said at some point, his voice close to her ear. "We're going below deck. You're soaked to the bone."

"No . . .," she mumbled. She had no idea how much time had passed and wasn't much aware of her wet clothing.

"Yes," he said, standing, his arm around her so she was forced to her feet, too.

Even that simple motion set her head to spinning and she reached out for something steady to hold on to.

"Try to take a few steps," Sandor shouted over the ceaseless pounding of the waves.

She tried. Her legs felt too weak to navigate the heaving deck and Sandor all but dragged her to the stairs and down to the cabin. It took her a long moment to realize he brought her to his cabin and helped her down onto his bunk. The feeble lantern light flickered, making Sansa blink and turn aside, even that slight alteration in her perception making her nauseous. Somehow she willed her stomach still.

"Here." A flagon appeared in front of her. "Rinse your mouth. Don't drink it."

Sansa struggled up onto her elbow and took a little of the wine into her mouth. The sourness of it made her stomach lurch. Sandor rubbed her back and held up a bucket.

When the awful moment passed, Sansa collapsed against the bedding. Hours seemed to pass. "Where's my father?" she eventually asked.

"In with Jeyne."

The next thing Sansa was aware of was a pounding in her head and an aching stiffness throughout her body. The dull gray light in the cabin suggested it was early morning but she felt so weak and exhausted she could barely move to raise her eyes to the porthole.

_Where is the porthole?_ Then she remembered she was in Sandor's bunk and the porthole was above her, not across from her. She tried to roll onto her back but something was stopping her. Soft breathing and the musculature of the obstacle made her more alert than she'd felt in days. Sandor was lying behind her, his arm trapped under her ribcage, which accounted for that particular ache. Sansa looked around, confused. _Where is Father?_ Then she saw him in her bunk, asleep. She struggled to sit up and looked down at Sandor, his scars mottled by the relative darkness. An overwhelming tenderness for him nearly brought her to tears. _He took care of me._ But it had been more than that. _He made me feel better even when I was at my worst._ With a fingertip she moved a lock of hair off his cheek and brushed the backs of her fingers over his scars. He stirred but didn't awaken. Sansa rested her palm on his chest and felt his heart beating, the steadiness of it even more gratifying after the chaos of the previous night's storm.

_I should brush my teeth_, Sansa thought vaguely, aware that her breath must be beyond ghastly. Her mouth felt as foul as the floor of a raven's cage and she was desirous of scouring it clean. She stood up to walk to her cabin when Sandor's hand suddenly closed over her wrist.

"Little bird," he murmured, a faint, sleepy smile on his lips.

"I didn't mean to wake you."

"How do you feel?"

Sansa considered. "Better, thank you. Achy, but better."

He sat up and drew her down next to him. Sansa glanced through the doorway to make sure her father was still asleep. "Please, I'm . . ."

"You're better. That's enough." He pressed a kiss to her hair.

"Thank you for taking care of me last night. I'm sorry about your breeches."

Sandor chuckled. "Wasn't the first time I've been vomited on. Doubt it will be the last."

"Did Father let you . . . ?" She couldn't imagine her father agreeing to Sandor sleeping in the bunk with her.

"He fell asleep first. I was sitting on his bunk watching you when he turned in."

"What if he'd woken up before us?" Her breathing quickened at how differently this morning might have gone.

He shrugged. "He didn't."

Sansa looked down and realized she was wearing a different dress than she had been. "Did you . . .?" She tugged at her skirt.

"No, you did. I waited outside with your father."

"Oh." Sansa didn't remember getting changed at all.

"Do you feel up to eating?"

Sansa's stomach felt spongy. "A little bread, perhaps."

Sandor nodded and pushed himself to his feet. "I'll have something brought up to the main deck. Unless you want to eat here . . ."

"I'll come up, thank you."

When he left, Sansa freshened herself up as much as she could. She longed for a bath but, still, she felt better than she expected to, despite the headache. When she reached the top deck, Brien was just setting a tray on the table.

"Ginger tea," he said with a wink. "You'll be right as rain in no time."

_I never want it to rain again_, she thought but, "Thank you," was what she said.

Sandor eyed the food and then looked at Sansa. "Start slow. I'm going to get changed and then I'll check on the horses before I come back."

One by one everyone but Jeyne made their way to the main deck. It seemed impossible that they were on the same sea. Whitecaps still butted against the ship's hull but they were nothing to the pounding surf they'd endured the night before. Sansa drank a little tea and nibbled on some bread, which seemed to absorb the remaining bile in her stomach. The fresh breeze felt wonderful against her face and she breathed in deeply as her father, Sandor, Arya, and Harry tucked into the food, Arya asking Sandor when they could duel again. Captain Dunellen directed a few sailors to their cabins to give them a thorough mopping, to everyone's relief and satisfaction. Sansa closed her eyes as the sun caressed her face. It soothed her and made her drowsy.

"Are you alright, Sansa?" her father asked.

"Just sleepy. I think I'll take some food down to Jeyne and nap a little while."

Jeyne was awake but still felt ill and wanted to rest a while longer. Sansa helped her into a new gown and urged her to have some food.

After Jeyne had a few bites, Sansa crept into her own bunk but thought about being in Sandor's. She regretted getting up so fast. She should have leaned against him and luxuriated in the feel of his body against hers. Revolting as she'd surely been, she was touched by Sandor's care. Not once had he treated her as though she repulsed him, even after she'd vomited on him. She fell asleep warmed by the tingly feeling of being accepted and cared for.

Later in the afternoon, Sansa and Jeyne sat on the deck and stared at the horizon in companionable silence. The sailors had arranged some crates so the ladies could sit with their feet up. They'd been plied with blankets, too, in an effort toward their comfort. Sansa felt remarkably better and she spent the time thinking about Sandor, blushing and smiling at her memories. She wished there was someone with whom she could share her feelings. No one would believe he could be so tender, so thoughtful, so . . . she sighed. So wonderful to kiss and feel and talk to and laugh with. It was a shame she had to isolate her knowledge of him from the rest of her life and it sat ill with her. Sansa glanced at Jeyne. Clearly things had gone farther between her and Willard than she'd realized. She knew Jeyne didn't like Sandor but, maybe, given her feelings for Willard, maybe she'd understand Sansa's own feelings . . .

As she was about to broach the subject, Arya came along and pulled herself up onto the crates. "Father said you were both sick last night. Are you feeling better?"

"I am, thank you," Sansa answered.

"Much better, thank you," Jeyne said.

Arya nodded and chewed her lip as she looked out at the water.

A gust of wind blew over the deck and Jeyne pulled a blanket tighter around her.

"Would you like another blanket?" Sansa asked.

"I'm fine. Please don't trouble yourself."

Sansa could see her friend was cold so she said, "It's no trouble," and made to get off the crates.

As she was pulling a blanket off of Jeyne's bunk, Arya entered the cabin and looked at her suspiciously. "You must have been very ill last night," she commented, her forehead wrinkled.

"It was just seasickness. It passed with the storm."

"I suppose sleeping helped."

"It did." Sansa wasn't sure why they were still discussing her illness.

Arya didn't look satisfied and Sansa realized she'd not inquired after her night. "Were you well? And Harry? I'm sorry the cabin was so . . ."

"We were fine. The horses were scared, though."

"Yes, I imagine they were."

Arya didn't respond for a long moment. She just stared at Sansa with narrowed eyes and then, blunt as a tourney sword, asked, "What's going on with you and Clegane?"


	19. Chapter 19

"What do you mean? Nothing's going on."

"You're spending all of your time with him."

"I'm not," Sansa answered reflexively. "I spend time with Jeyne, too."

Arya rolled her eyes. "Holding her hair as she wretches isn't 'spending time' with her."

Sansa gave her sister a look and hoped she'd drop the subject.

"I'm not stupid, Sansa."

"I never said you were."

"I saw you last night."

Sansa's heart stopped. "On the main deck? He sat with me because I was sick."

"No, I saw you in there." She jerked her chin toward Sandor's cabin.

Sansa could only stand there with her mouth open. No words of defense came to her at all.

"Or didn't you know?"

"Know what?" Suddenly Sansa's mind was racing. She didn't want to lie but neither did she want her sister to announce Sandor's actions to the crew in general or her father in particular.

"He was sleeping with you. Father was in your bunk, you were in _his_ and he was sleeping behind you. He had his arms all over you, too." Arya curled her lip in disgust.

"I . . . I didn't know he'd fallen asleep there until this morning."

Arya's eyes narrowed. "That -" and then she said something so unladylike Sansa was momentarily stunned.

"I thought you were in the horse hold," Sansa said irrelevantly.

"I came to get a blanket and there he was, snoring like an aurochs." Arya watched her, clearly waiting for Sansa to erupt in righteous indignation.

"He was probably exhausted and just fell asleep."

"Why would he have been in the same bunk as you at all?

"Arya, I was so sick, he was probably holding a bucket for me. He tried to make me feel better."

"By groping you in your sleep?!"

"I'm sure he wasn't groping me!"

"He was all over you -"

"Arya . . ." Sansa looked around the cabin and hurriedly moved to close the doors. Her desire to unburden herself of her feelings was overwhelming in the face of this unexpected opportunity. Arya was not the person she would have chosen to tell but, lacking anyone else, she couldn't stop herself. Still, she tried to choose her words carefully. "He was very kind to me last night and . . . I care about him. And I think he cares about me. I mean, I know he does. He hasn't said so but . . . his actions . . ."

For a moment, Arya looked sicker than Jeyne ever had. Her mouth opened and closed and she shook her head a little as if to deny that it could be so. Sansa's heart sank.

"You care about _him_."

"Yes." Sansa wasn't sure if she felt trapped or liberated by her admission.

"_Him._ The Hound. Joffrey's dog."

"Please don't call him that. His name is Sandor."

"Sansa, why? You could have been queen. You could still marry a high lord. Isn't that what you always wanted? The Hound is all scarred and ugly and . . . _landless_. Why would you bother with _him_?"

"He's . . . Arya, I wish you knew him better. Hasn't your opinion of him changed at _all_ since we left King's Landing?"

Arya pressed her lips together. "If you like him, I won't do anything."

"Please don't _say_ anything, either! I told Father we're just friends . . ."

"You're _more_?" Arya looked nauseated.

Sansa knew true ladies did not discuss such matters but she wanted to share her happiness. "Arya, he's . . . he's so _. . _. He's intelligent and brave and _honest_. He's so _different_ than what I first thought he was. He can be very sweet and gentle and the way he -"

Arya pulled a face. "Alright. Enough. I don't want to hear any more of this."

"I know it's a surprise but please . . . Father nearly flew into a rage when I told him that we were friends. I think he only tolerates him because he saw Sandor stop Joffrey from attacking me."

"He does seem very protective of you," Arya said grudgingly.

"Yes, he is very protective."

Arya looked like she was going to ask a question but then the door opened and Jeyne walked in.

"Who's protective?"

Sansa's breath froze in her chest. She couldn't find anything to say and Arya's silence did nothing to ease the moment.

"The Hound?" Jeyne asked.

Still Sansa couldn't find the words but she noticed Jeyne looked both sad and put out by turns. "The blanket," Sansa mumbled. "I'm so sorry. You've been waiting."

"Neither of you came back so I came to find you."

"Well, here's your blanket," Arya said, taking it from Sansa and shoving it toward Jeyne. "We'll see you up on the deck."

Jeyne ignored her. "You were talking about the Hound, weren't you? I've seen the way he watches you. I'm not surprised you've earned his admiration. Half the realm is in love with you, after all."

"I'm certain that's not so," Sansa said.

Jeyne looked at her evenly and then turned away and walked out of the room, shutting the cabin door quietly behind her.

Sansa sagged. She didn't want to upset her friend but she was relieved that Jeyne had not heard her earlier, more effusive praise of Sandor. She looked at Arya, who looked back with an expression not untouched by pity.

The next day, during their midday meal on the main deck, Jeyne surprised everyone by volunteering to go with Harry after they'd eaten to tend to the horses. To escape the sun for a while, Sansa went below to the cabin, Arya trailing behind, tossing an apple hand to hand as they walked. Their father and Sandor were making plans for reaching Winterfell so they had the cabin to themselves.

Without preamble, Arya said, "Now that I know, it's obvious."

Sansa blushed furiously. "Please don't say that! No one can know!"

"It's only obvious when the two of you are together and there won't be much chance of that once we get home."

Sansa knew her sister was right but, still, the words bit at her heart. "No, I suppose not."

"Why did you tell me?" Arya asked. "I mean, how you feel about him. If you don't want anyone to know."

"There's no one else I can talk to! I was going to tell Jeyne -"

"You shouldn't."

"I'm not, now, but I wanted to tell _someone_. Arya, he makes me so happy!"

Arya struggled not to make a face and Sansa could have hugged her for it. "Are you going to tell Mother when we get back? If anyone sees what's going on with you and Clegane, she will."

"I want to. It's just . . ."

"No one will be happy to see him?"

Sansa sighed. "Yes."

"And everyone will think he's a Lannister spy?"

"Do you?"

"No," Arya answered right away, which lifted Sansa's spirits a little.

"Why not?"

Arya shrugged. "He doesn't seem like he'd care enough."

Her assessment made Sansa uncomfortable and Arya hurriedly added, "I mean, about the Lannisters. To spy for them." With that she climbed up into her bunk and Sansa heard her crunch into her apple.

After a pause, Sansa asked, "Have you ever felt . . .?" For some reason, being unable to see each other made it easier to discuss sensitive subjects more freely.

"No."

Again Sansa wondered if maybe she should have told Jeyne her feelings for Sandor but her instinct was, no, she'd made the better choice in confiding in her sister.

After a long pause, Arya asked, "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know." Everything had been such a blur since Sevenmas, and especially since they'd left King's Landing, that Sansa hadn't considered much beyond the reception Sandor would receive at Winterfell. Her heart clenched at the thought of him being turned away, not only for all he'd done for her family but also for the man she knew him to be.

"Mother and Father will never let you marry him."

"I know."

"Do you _want_ to marry him?"

"I haven't really thought about it. Lately my thoughts were mostly about _not _marrying Joffrey."

Arya grunted. "Only Joffrey could make the Hound look good." After a pause she added, "Sorry."

Sansa frowned but went on. "I'd just like to spend time with him without everyone . . ."

"- treating you like you're wrong for wanting something that's not really wrong at all?"

"Yes." Sansa was surprised her sister understood.

"It's the same with my sword," Arya said through a mouthful of apple.

"I noticed you're wearing it all the time now."

"Mm hm."

"Where did you get it?"

"Jon had it made for me."

That took Sansa aback. "Why did you hide it?"

She could practically hear Arya shrug before she said, "Because I didn't want to be told 'no' all the time."

Sansa felt a pang of sympathy. "It's just a sword . . ."

"So's Clegane."

Now Sansa really felt a pang. "He's more. You know he's more."

Arya's bunk creaked as she rolled and leaned over the edge to look down at Sansa. "No one else thinks he's more. Unless they think he's a drunkard, too."

The injustice of that made something in Sansa flare up. "Father seems to be warming to him a little bit." It was nearly a question.

"Only because there's no one else to talk to." Arya flopped back against her pillow and took another bite of her apple.

"That may be but Sandor knows the Lannisters and the court, and he's traveled to Winterfell before. Just because the Lannisters didn't truly know him –"

"Clegane only wants you to know that he can kill you. If he's actually . . . _nice_," Arya said skeptically, "you're the only one who knows."

Warmth washed over Sansa and her chest and belly felt fluttery. "He _is_ nice."

"He'll have to prove it when we get to Winterfell if he wants to stay."

Sansa could tell her sister's patience with the topic of Sandor's personality was wearing thin so she asked, "Are you going to keep wearing your sword when we get home?"

"Yes. I want to practice in the yard with everyone else. I'm good now."

"You did very well against Sandor but one duel –"

"It wasn't one duel," Arya cut in. "I was taking lessons in King's Landing. Father arranged a fencing master for me. Those were the dancing lessons you thought I was taking."

Once again Sansa was surprised. "I wondered why you were so bruised! Are your lessons still a secret?"

"I think Clegane knows. I guess everyone else will figure it out."

Sansa wrinkled her brow. _How would Sandor know?_ "If Sandor does know, he kept your secret."

Arya seemed to consider that. "I guess he did."

Both girls were quiet for a moment. "Thank you for telling me. About your lessons, I mean," Sansa said.

"You told me your secret first."

"Arya . . . do you think I'm making a mistake by . . . continuing to spend time with him?"

"Mother and Father will think you are."

"Do you?"

There was a pause. "I don't understand it but I guess not."

"Do you think it's wrong to . . . be affectionate with someone you can't marry?"

Sansa could feel Arya tense up. "You haven't . . . ?"

"No! He's just kissed me." _Everywhere._

"What was it like?"

Sansa flushed. "It was very nice. He's -"

"I don't want to hear about _him_!"

Sansa gave a tense giggle. Talking about this was exciting and embarrassing and _new_. She knew Arya couldn't give her advice based on experience but it was so nice to share her feelings with someone. "So you've never . . .?" she asked hesitantly.

"No!"

"It's not a bad thing."

"I guess not – if it's something you _want_ to do."

"I do want to . . ."

"I thought you wanted to be queen or a great lady. Because you can't be either if you keep kissing the Hound."

"I did want to be queen, until I got to know Joffrey. Now . . . I'm not sure. I think I'd rather be happy."

Arya jumped down from her bunk, her apple core in her hand. "Then I don't think you're wrong. But no one will care what I think."

The rest of that day and the next, Sansa often felt Arya's gaze on her, particularly when she was with Sandor but, as her father didn't seem upset, she knew her sister had kept her silence.

"Your sister keeps staring at us, little bird," Sandor remarked as they strolled the deck.

"Do you think anyone else has noticed?"

Sandor stepped in front of her. "That's your question? You don't find it strange that we're suddenly of interest to her?" His eyes bored into her.

Sansa stepped around him and he followed her to the front of the ship. Nestled in the narrow space, Sansa looked down at the prow cutting through the water. "I told her."

Sandor glared at the horizon before turning back to her. "I figured as much."

"Are you angry with me?"

Sandor took a breath before answering. "What did you tell her?"

"Well . . . I told her . . ." Her cheeks grew hot and she found she couldn't look at him. "I told her I care about you and that you . . ." Sansa's embarrassment was acute. How presumptuous she was about to sound! "And that you care about me." She stole a look at his face.

Sandor's expression didn't change. "Why did you tell her that?"

"She saw you sleeping behind me in your bunk."

Sandor turned away and muttered a string of obscenities.

"She said she wouldn't say anything."

"And you believed her? What happens the next time she ruins one of your dresses? You get angry and she tells everyone?"

Sansa didn't quite like the childishness that implied. Her voice was stiff when she answered, "I believe she'll keep her word."

Sandor snorted and looked away again.

"She knows how -" Sansa nearly said 'damaging' but quickly chose a more compassionate description. "- important discretion is when it comes to . . . something like this."

To Sansa's frustration, Sandor didn't turn around so she went on. "Don't be angry with her. I'm the one who told her the truth." Her insides squirmed a bit at that. Sandor had not confirmed that she'd spoken the truth regarding his feelings.

He did turn to face her, then, and said, "It was my own bloody fault for not sleeping in the other bunk."

They stared at each other for a moment. Sansa's insides felt scrambled.

"And I'd do it again," he added.

The next day, Sansa, Arya, and Jeyne were laying on their bunks playing a game in which each person had to name a place beginning with the last letter of the place just named. None of them was particularly interested in playing but entertainment options were few.

"Westeros," Arya said with a yawn.

"Silverhill," Jeyne responded dully.

"Lannisport," Sansa said.

Heavy footsteps sounded in the passageway and then a knock came at the door. Sansa sat up and was almost hit in the face by Arya's heels as her sister swung her legs over the edge of her bunk. "Come in," Sansa said.

Sandor ducked into the cabin. "Lady Sansa. Come up to the main deck. I want to show you something. You, too," he said to Arya and Jeyne. "You'll want to see this."

They went above and joined Ned at the railing. He looked almost happy. "Look over there."

"What is it?" Arya asked.

Sandor leaned his forearms on the rail and squinted into the sun. Sansa looked out and saw the shape of land forming in the distance. "Are those the Sisters?"

"No," Sandor said, "That's White Harbor."

They didn't make port for another day, the wind being against them. Finally arriving in White Harbor but having to stay on the ship was a test of everyone's patience. Once again they sat and listened to the crew load and unload cargo above their heads. This time, however, they all sat in one cabin; Sandor and Sansa on her bunk, Jeyne and Ned on Jeyne's bunk, Arya on hers, and Harry on the floor.

"Father, can we stay at an inn tonight? A bath would be ever so nice." A soak and a scrub to wash away the dirt of travel would be more revitalizing than anything else Sansa could think of.

"No, I want to be outside of the city long before dawn. If we go to an inn, we'll be recognized." He didn't have to say which one of them was the most recognizable. "Is everyone packed?"

There were nods all around. They'd all started packing as soon as the harbor was spotted.

"Clegane, you and Harry will see that the horses are fed and our supplies are ready?"

"Yes," Sandor answered.

"I've asked Captain Dunellen if some food might be found for us this afternoon and he's agreed. After that, I suggest everyone try to sleep for a while. We'll be leaving well into the night and riding hard."

Sansa lay on her bunk for the last time and gazed at Sandor, the bright afternoon sunlight streaming into the cabins. He glanced at her father, gave her a half smile as he adjusted the pillow behind his head, and pointedly closed his eyes. Sansa sighed to herself. She watched his chest rise and fall and pictured the supple skin and dark hair that lay beneath his tunic. She resolved not to be frustrated. They were going home! Soon she would see her mother and her brothers and Sandor would be there and somehow it would all work out. Lulled by visions of a happy homecoming, she eventually nodded off.

Hours later, Sandor's voice was close to her ear. "Little bird, it's time." His heavy hand on her shoulder rocked her gently.

Sansa was so groggy she was sure she was dreaming and turned to go on sleeping. Suddenly there was a banging above her. "Let's go, she-wolf." Arya groaned and Sansa heard Jeyne get up. The next part of their journey was upon them.

The girls carried their bags down the gangplank, thanking Captain Dunellen and the sailors nearby on their way, and handed them to Harry who secured them to the last pack horse. Sandor was standing with Ned but, when he saw Sansa, he came over and took her by the elbow, guiding her toward Stranger, who pawed the ground and threw his head. Sandor lifted her into the saddle and then vaulted in behind her. They looked down and waited as the others figured out how to arrange themselves. With a taxed look at Sandor, Ned was left to direct the others and, in the end, he and Arya led the way with a pack horse on a guideline behind them. Jeyne and Harry were in the middle with the other pack horse tethered to them, and Sansa and Sandor followed.

They edged through the city, avoiding open squares and keeping to dark alleyways until they found their way to the northern gate. Sansa felt Sandor relax just slightly behind her as they went through it and she allowed herself to lean against him as they passed under the cover of trees and followed the road into the woods. The blackness was almost absolute, the lantern her father carried bobbling ahead in the distance, the horses picking their way carefully.

"Hold these," Sandor said quietly as Sansa felt him nudge the reins into her hand. She took them as a reaction only, not thinking she had neither the skill nor the desire to handle Stranger. As soon as they were in her hand, Sandor's arms were tight around her, pulling her back against him. He curled over her with a soft groan, pushed her hair aside and kissed and sucked on the back of her neck. Sansa tipped her head down and closed her eyes, a sigh dying on her lips as a twig snapped somewhere in the woods. Sandor's hands slid up her abdomen and cupped her breasts, squeezing them just slightly too hard. She pressed back against him, feeling a large ridge with the small of her back. Sansa looked up and Sandor covered her mouth with his, kissing her hard despite the awkward angle. He broke away after a moment and she felt his hand over hers, taking the reins back from her. His arm kept her firmly against him and she felt his uneven breaths as he rested his cheek against the top of her head.

"Gods, it's a long way to Winterfell," he muttered.


End file.
